


The nice and accurate prophecies of Sam Winchester, Hunter

by Harihat



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Crack, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, NaNoWriMo, Silly, Sorry Not Sorry, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harihat/pseuds/Harihat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to the prophecies of Sam Winchester, something very very strange is about to happen. Which isn't  anything unusual, so it's really quite remarkable that anyone took any notice. Only Sam doesn't really remember writing any prophecies, Crowley is hailing him as the bringer of the end of days, Castiel is driving everybody mad with his new hobby and Dean would very much like to go back to bed now. Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1am Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, my first Supernatural fanfiction. In fact, my first fanfiction in about 10 years. I'd run now, if I were you. For those that stay, I apologise profusely in advance...

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

Despite popular opinion, when the really evil stuff is going down, it rarely is. No self-respecting demon really wants to draw unnecessary attention to himself by poncing about under lightning-filled skies and voluminous rainclouds when he could stay inside, put his feet up and watch a few re-runs of Sex and the City.

Crowley liked to think he was a very, very self-respecting demon. He also liked to think that he was most like Charlotte, but that’s a story for chapter 7.

However much the traditionalists liked to go in for a bit of fire and brimstone on a Friday night, there wasn’t much that could top ice and a slice, generously doused in Archers and lemonade, in front of his favourite box set. There wasn’t a hen night on the whole of planet earth who wouldn’t vouch that the true essence of hell lurked in those innocent peachy notes. People could blame the devil for the evils of the world all they wanted, but Lucifer had never enticed anyone to don a set of L-Plates and fall backwards from the roof of a ghastly pink Range Rover. You had to be human to think of something that atrocious.

Or Miley Cyrus. Crowley had never been sure about that one.                                                  

What he was sure about, however, is that there was some evil afoot.

Afoot his feet, to be precise.

Yes, Crowley really had something this time, and that ‘something’ was going to be worth an apocalypse-worth of gold stars on his ninth-circle reward chart by the time he was finished. This was, of course, afoot Crowley in a metaphorical sense only. His actual footwear had very little to do with it. (Fuzzy crocs, despite many opinions to the contrary, have never been proven as a particularly strong conduit for dark forces)

The item in question was innocuous-looking enough. They generally were since hell’s art and design department had started sub-contracting to Topshop a few years earlier and Crowley couldn’t help missing a little theatricality to immerse himself in. Books, even impressively bound leather tomes with suspicious red splatters all about the pages, were very seldom scary. The journal of Sam Winchester didn’t even have the benefit of being old or bound in ancient animal skins, though the half-faded sale sticker almost made up for it :“Bye one get one free”, Crowley flinched away in horror whenever his eyes lingered too long.

It had been easy enough to lift from the bunker. Whenever Castiel was around Sam made something of a habit of moving in the opposite direction to anything possibly construed as a suspicious noise whilst Dean and the angel himself had long ago decided that sneaking down the corridors of the bunker, armed only with a flashlight, was only asking for trouble. It wasn’t even as if any of them knew what the book contained. _That_ little annotation had been made by Crowley himself, in neat black marker:

_The nice and accurate prophecies of Sam Winchester: Hunter._

* * *

Contrary to any buggery-related beliefs Sam may have held, there was very seldom any reason to avoid Dean’s room on the basis of protecting your virtue. Dean could count on one hand the number of vaguely interesting things he and Cas got up to when the Angel dropped by for a visit, and none of them involved much in the way of bad touching. Or good touching, depending on who you asked.

One of said things did sort of involve marriage and babies, but unfortunately not in the ‘saying “I do” and then making them’ sort of way. Which, as the elder Winchester would have told anyone who cared to ask (and all of those who frequently did), was not something he was even vaguely interested in pursuing with his friend anyway, so he didn’t know why they all insisted on bringing it up all the time.

If he’d even thought about it for long enough to consider whether or not he was interested.

Which he hadn’t.

He hadn’t even got as far as considering whether or not he’d even considered it in the first place. Not until everyone kept asking him, anyway.

There was no denying that there was something incredibly endearing about how Cas let himself get completely sucked into the game each time, though. Dean wouldn’t ever admit it to himself but a nagging voice in his head often ridiculed him for spending evening after evening cross-legged on his bed, watching their plastic cars trek their way around the garish cardboard squares.

It was important to give Cas all the help he could in understanding how humans did things, that was all. It was really extra training, in a way.

Where Cas had even picked up a copy of “The Game of Life – Vampire and Werewolf Edition” was anybody’s guess, which was probably lucky for the supplier on the nights that the elder Winchester found himself firmly trounced by an Angel in possession of six plastic pins and a stack of “great kill!” cards. Not that he cared about being beaten at some dumb parlour game. He was a real hunter, he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone and he _certainly_ didn’t need to prove it by collecting more plastic counters than his companion.

“You have rescued a great beauty from a nest of Vampires, add one peg.” The Angel paused and frowned.

Dean could hear Cas pondering over the contents of the card as he read it out, his fingers toying with the pile of pins that lay in the discarded cardboard lid. “Why does the great beauty get in the car? It’s foolish, considering I am a stranger to them.” He frowned in thought. “It would be safer to go home. Perhaps I should…” he tailed off, picking up a blue peg and settling it into his red, plastic car beside the ‘Cas’ pin in the driving seat.

Dean sighed and held out his hand, offering up a pink peg. “I think they meant a girl, Cas. A girl great beauty.”

Cas studied the card in earnest, searching for some such clue. “It doesn’t say.”

“Yeah, but… it’s the whole marriage card thing. It’s a wife, really.”

The look of confusion on his friend’s face didn’t abate, but he took the pink peg without further question and disposed of the blue beside his pile of ‘transylvanian dollars’. Dean rubbed his neck awkwardly and reached for the dice, relieved that he seemed to have avoided any further interrogation over the exact nature of the pink peg and its implications. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss what might and might not happen between a vampire hunter and a great beauty once the rescue was over. It was probably safest not to give Cas any ideas of what Dean had got up to after rescuing girls from demons and monsters in the past. Or worse, what Cas might be expected to get up to the next time he pulled someone from the fiery pits of hell.

“Right, so that’s a five…” Dean pushed all of his concentration into manoeuvring the tiny black car around the board, avoiding eye contact for the moment to ensure that this particular thread of conversation died its natural death as quickly as possible.

There had been something of a row the first time it had come to choosing their player colours, although Dean blushed now to think that he had got himself so worked up over a piece of moulded plastic. Still, at least these days Cas always let him be the black car. It was out of an acceptance that it simply made logical _sense_ that Dean should get the counter that resembled Baby, he hoped, rather than any fear on Castiel’s part that Dean might flip the board over and storm out again.

Which of course he wouldn’t. Once was quite enough.

Well, twice, but he’d been having a really bad day the second time and he shouldn’t be expected to sit up and play board games with a bored angel after nearly having his arm broken by some vengeful poltergeist in the first place.

“You get a great beauty too, Dean.”

Dean tried not to roll his eyes as Cas eagerly deposited a peg in his outstretched palm. When he finally worked up the nerve to glance down he exhaled a slow breath of relief – it was a pink one this time. Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all.

Fixing his new “wife” in place in the tiny black Impala (it looked more like a crummy Ford Focus, but hey, he was allowed to embellish a little, wasn’t he?) Dean dropped the dice back in front of the angel and waited to see what monsters waited their next throw.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?” Dean lifted his head to study Cas’s expression, steeling himself for a searching question on something horribly awkward. Last time it had been a query on whether Hunters ever collected little pink ‘children’ pegs in real life, followed by the sort of kicked puppy expression that made Dean feel like the world’s worst human when he realised the bad memories he’d dragged up. No, growing up with a hunter for a father wasn’t something that Dean was in a hurry to inflict on anyone else, and no, he didn’t want to talk about it. He bit his lip, wondering what it would be this time.

“The door is shut.”

Dean blinked. “Yeah?”

As far as Cas’s penchant for seemingly random comments went, it wasn’t all that strange. He just couldn’t figure out what had drawn Cas’s attention to the-

“It was open when we began.”

He was right. All at once the cozy, relaxed mood that had crept over him throughout the evening evaporated. His eyes locked onto Cas’s and for a moment, neither moved. They didn’t need to speak, they both knew the drill at times like these. Well, they thought they did, and that was what counted.

 _Should we arm up?_  The set of his companion’s jaw seemed to ask.

_Can’t hurt. Let’s check it out._

_Okay, I’m right behind you_.

Simple. It was as if he could read the Angel’s mind sometimes.

Of course, the problem with reading each other’s expressions, is that things can sometimes end up being interpreted a little bit differently.

Or a little bit more than a _little_ differently.

Whilst Dean was already reaching for his bag, tucked just within reach as always, ready to burn and salt whatever might be lurking in the corridor, Castiel’s version of the conversation had indeed gone what we might describe as a _little_ differently.

Dean’s eyes were fixed on his, a sudden tension setting about his frame.

 _The door is shut?_ His eyes seemed to say.

_Yes, Sam has obviously gone to bed and shut it to ensure that he does not get woken._

_So we’re alone then?_

_Yes, we’re alone._

_So… what he said earlier about hydrogenated fat and additive intake and not letting us have any more nachos, that no longer applies?_

_Correct, dear Angel. Better yet, he left us the whole block of cheese to go with them._

It would later occur to Castiel that he was guilty of letting his human feelings interfere with his priorities in what could only be described as a post-human hangover of sorts. At that moment, however, he could think of no sensible reason why nachos should not be the first and most important thing on Dean’s mind. Or anyone else’s mind, come to think of it. Nachos were, quite simply, phenomenally important.

Despite regaining grace of some variety, some aspects of his human nature were proving more and more difficult to shake. Fortunately, Dean seemed to be unperturbed by his penchant for late-night carb binges, even offering to help when it came to rustling up something satisfying at short notice. Food was a safe enough territory with the hunter, it seemed. He wasn’t so sure about mentioning any of his other new cravings to his friends.

The pair regarded each other a moment longer before nodding and each grabbing their weapon of choice. A short-handled, double bladed axe for Dean and a long, serrated knife for the angel. Cutting through the molten cheese that cemented the nachos together could be a tough job, it wouldn’t do to be poorly armed.

Dean climbed slowly to his feet, nodding to Cas to follow him and crept toward the door, one hand hesitantly reaching for the handle. It one swift movement he flung it open, rushing forward to confront any intruder that might have been stupid enough to stand directly behind a heavy, flying object. To his relief, there was no one there.

Tentatively, Castiel peered around the doorframe and sniffed cautiously in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t entirely sure why Dean was intent on making quite so much noise in pursuit of a quick midnight snack but wasn’t about to let a little thing like Dean Winchester’s behaviour being incomprehensible stop him from reaching his goal.

As a general rule, if you let the fact that Dean Winchester was behaving oddly get in the way of whatever you were doing, you would most likely never get anything done at all.

Instead, he reached out and took hold of Dean’s free arm. Mostly because it was closest, but also because it wasn’t carrying anything that Dean might accidentally stab him with if he was startled, and that was always a plus. Now he wasn’t quite as indestructible it seemed sensible to place “not being stabbed” a little higher up his list of priorities than previously. Plus, these days it kind of hurt a lot worse too.

Dean stiffened under his touch, keeping his gaze fixed at the far end of the corridor. It was sensible enough – anything that had entered the bunker through the front and passed by their door would logically be down the far end by now. Unless of course it had already been inside for longer than they suspected and was already making its way back to the entrance, armed with Chuck-knows-what.

“You hear anything?” he rasped, leaning closer to hear the angel’s reponse.

“No. I don’t hear anything. I think it’s safe.”

Dean frowned. Sure, they couldn’t see any evidence of an intruder and yeah, maybe they had shut the door and just forgotten about it, but surely that was no reason for Cas to be shoving one hand in his trench coat pocket, the other around the hunter’s elbow and nonchalantly sidling off in the direction of the kitchen before they’d even had a cursory look around.

He waited for the grip on his arm to relax but instead found himself forced to take a few steps after his friend, sneaking a backwards glance toward their bedroom door. Okay, so maybe Cas could hear something he couldn’t. Hell maybe he could _sense_ it or smell it or whatever – that didn’t mean that they shouldn’t at least check the other side of the bunker.

Cas, meanwhile, was being spurred kitchenwards by an angry growl from the direction of his stomach. How humans ever got anything done when they had to keep stopping to eat and drink and sleep all the time, he couldn’t even fathom. Maybe after a while they learned to be like Dean, subsisting on four hours a night and a hurried sandwich from the nearest Gas ‘n’ Sip every now and then. It seemed a terrible shame, given how much he enjoyed sleeping. Eating too, for that matter.

He wished he could do the same – although the existence of nachos made his predicament a little more bearable. He just hoped that Sam hadn’t finished all the guacamole this time.

Dean allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, covering Cas’s back (as that was surely the intention of tugging Dean so close to him – Cas couldn’t exactly see out of the back of his head any more and should probably have someone behind him to keep an eye out. Hanging onto his arm like that would slow Dean down considerably when it came to actually _dealing_ with any monster that tried to get the jump on them, though. Maybe he’d talk to Cas about that a little later.) He shielded his eyes as they stepped into the kitchen and the light switch flooded the room in a white glow, making him squint away.

Someone had definitely been in here. Well, either that or Sam had been pottering about in here and had suddenly developed a keen interest in interior design of the seriously macabre variety.

Dean really hoped that wasn’t the case. He didn’t think he could stomach an argument over redecoration with someone whose idea of ‘interior sculpture’ involved etching ominous prophecies all over the kitchen counters.

Or smearing a chilling warning in blood over the doorway.

Jesus Christ, what on earth had _happened_ in here.

Whoever had broken in had at least been considerate of the various bits of crockery that lay about the room, undisturbed and Dean was thankful for that at least. The floor was covered in a slowly congealing puddle of some sort of slime that he couldn’t quite place and footprints led from there to the fridge, where a knife sat buried into the door.

 At this point, Dean was too distracted by the rest of the mess to wonder who on earth would bother stabbing a refrigerator – etched in spikey capitals along his favourite chopping board were the words:

AND WHEN THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS VISITS UPON THY MARKETPLACE

KNOW THAT ALL THAT CAN BEAT HIM BACK

IS THE COMBINED POWER OF THOSE WHOSE CLOAK BELIES THEIR INNER NATURE

FOR INSIDE LIES A HEART THAT KNOWS NO DIFFERENCE

FROM ITS BROTHERS

Various emotions warred inside the elder Winchester – not least annoyance that someone would ruin a perfectly good bread knife and chopping board when he’d gone to the trouble of buying one of those magnetic notepad thingies to stick to the fridge door. There was even a pen attached, for God’s sake – and he’d _liked_ that chopping board. Dean made a mental note to ensure that the demise of the demon who’d done this was slow and painful.

Not _that_ slow, he didn’t want to spend all day about it, but probably slow enough that he could teach him a lesson on just how difficult it was to get a proper oak chopping board at a decent price in a state that wasn’t all that renowned for its cookware stores. _Then_ he’d kill him.

Then there were the other, possibly more pressing issue of the fact that someone, probably an evil someone, had broken into the bunker undetected and had left this message for them. A really lame message, actually. The kind of prophecy a demonic twelve year old might come out with whilst trying to sound impressive.

At least he hoped this message had been “left”. The alternative was that the author was still somewhere in the vicinity, and Dean would certainly rather that wasn’t the case right now.

“Good job Cas,” he muttered under his breath, “we wouldn’t have known about this ‘til morning if you hadn’t…”

He sighed.

“God, Cas. We need to find Sam. That thing didn’t need to go near our room to get in the kitchen – what if it’s…”

“-Our room?”

Trust Cas the miss the point entirely.

“ _My_ room”

“Oh. right.”

“Cas!”

“What?”

“Sam!”

Cas nodded, finally catching onto Dean’s train of thought. He sighed and ran his finger idly through the pile of wood shavings that had built up around the mutilated surface of the chopping board. So much for a quick, late night snack and an evening spent with Dean and his favourite board games to look forward to. Knowing his luck, Dean would want to get straight to work on whatever case had just fallen out of sky onto them and wouldn’t be in the sort of mood that occasionally saw him joining Cas for a late night snack. Castiel enjoyed those nights. If Dean was in a good enough mood he’d sometimes make some chilli or melt some cheese over the nachos under the grill for him.

If he was in a good mood.

Nothing put Dean in a bad mood faster than having his stuff messed with by dark forces.

“I could check on him for you. If you want to look around here.” He offered.

Dean didn’t miss the plaintive glance he threw toward the refrigerator door.

Dean shook his head. “No, I’m coming with you.”

Castiel opened his mouth to argue but seemingly, for once, thought better of it. “Okay.”

* * *

Sam Winchester was not having the best day.

First off, someone had played some stupid prank on him and made him forget to buy beetroot and mozzarella, his new notebook had gone missing, _then_ someone had scrawled graffiti all over his bedroom mirror in what looked like lipstick and _now_ when he was trying to sleep and get rid of the pounding headache that had been bugging him since he left the shops some idiot was pounding on the door and shouting his name.

“SAM!”

The younger Winchester groaned and pulled his pillow firmly over his head. Whatever his companions wanted, he hoped they would give up and wait until morning if he ignored them long enough. He could put up with being roused for a life threatening emergency, if _absolutely_ necessary, but last time it can been to answer a query on where the sour cream was. The time before _that_ it had been to mediate a dispute over some crazy board game that Cas had brought over (“But he’s _cheating,_ Sam!”) and the time before _that_ it had been to borrow a hairbrush.

He was still none the wiser on that one – neither Cas nor his brother had enough hair to warrant running a brush through it, but it was generally safest not to ask with those two. Knowing his luck, Cas would blurt out something inappropriate that would make him decide to burn the offending item the moment it was returned and Dean would glare at him for apparently making him do it. No, it was generally safer _not_ to enquire over anything slightly strange that his brother and the Angel were getting up to at any given moment.

“SAM!”

His eyes snapped open, finally abandoning any attempt at sleep.

“What?” He replied, half muffling his response into his pillow. On the other side of the door he heard the conversation continuing:

“I think he’s okay. Do you think we should go in and check?”

“Cover me, okay?”

With an almighty crash, Sam’s bedroom door flew open, the harsh light of the hallway adding a brand new layer of pain to his headache. Sometimes, he could happily murder both of his cohabiters. Sometimes they had tried to murder him as well, of course, but the difference was that Dean and Cas really, really deserved it.

“Sammy?”

“Hmmph?”

Now the pair were exchanging sheepish glances, as if experiencing a terrible sense of anti-climax mixed in with a couple of tablespoons of embarrassment, liberally sprinkled with the sense that one might just have accidentally partaken in what was colloquially known as the act of being an utter douche.

“Are you… okay?”

_I would be, if you two morons could just get back to whatever weirdo sex games you play with that freaky Game of Life board and left me alone._

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Another sheepish glance. “Right, well…”

“Don’t go in the kitchen.”

Sam took a deep, long-suffering breath and raised his head to meet his brother’s gaze. “Okay.”

The door slowly creaked shut, taking its sadist friend “light” with it. Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief and rolled onto his side. He needed his sleep tonight. He was so tired he was having trouble even remembering what he’d done, most of the evening.

He’d been….in the kitchen. Yes, that was it. He was going to hide the rest of the nachos, so they wouldn’t mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night, as they were often wont to do. And then…

Then he wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t as bothered as he perhaps should have been about the patchy memories surrounding his evening. Given that they’d been rather overworked lately, it wasn’t completely unfathomable that he might be a little stressed out and not thinking too clearly. After all, if the bunker wasn’t actually on fire it was unlikely that he’d done anything of note whilst drinking his coffee.

If only he could remember where he’d put his notebook, he might have some kind of idea what he’d been working on before he’d gone to get the damned coffee in the first place. Either way, it couldn’t have been very interesting or particularly important if he could remember absolutely nothing about it.

Falling into a doze, Sam pushed all thoughts of notebooks and kitchens out of his mind as he stretched his aching limbs out to starfish across the bed. It could wait until tomorrow. It could _all_ wait until tomorrow.

Even better than that, it could wait until he’d slept properly, eaten breakfast and drunk his second cup of coffee.

Yes, it would all be fine in the morning.

Meanwhile, in the darkest recesses of the kitchen, a bottle of Hoi Sin Sauce was slowly going off.

* * *


	2. 3am - Thusday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, in which Crowley goes in search of breakfast, Dean goes in search of Angels and Sam would just like everyone to leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all you lovely people who read Chapter One. It's not much of a reward, more of a punishment, but here is Chapter Two!

“Crooooowley?”

Crowley woke from his slumber with a cast-iron dread in his stomach and a pounding headache. The latter was fixed easily enough (no hangover hangs around long once the King of Hell has told it to sling its hook) the former meant one of two things. For there were only two things in the whole, wide world that could strike fear into Crowley’s heart.

1)      The apocalypse was coming (again)

2)      He’d forgotten his breakfast date at the Ritz with the campest, nerdiest, most British divine being that had ever existed in all the millennia they had both lived.

“Crowley?”

Being a resident of hell, Crowley was used to dealing with all manner of unpleasant things. Flayings, burnings, telesales, ad breaks, that moment when you realise that Ben and Jerry’s have discontinued Cherry Garcia, the M25 orbital motorway on a Bank Holiday Monday…

“My dear old chap, have you _seen_ the time?”

…Eastenders Christmas specials, people who pronounced it ‘could of’, teabags that split open and left a nasty, silty mess all over the bottom of the mug…

“Crowley, I am starting to get the impression that you are ignoring me on purpose. I know you’re the King of Hell but that is _no_ excuse for poor manners. CROWLEY!”

…the Comic Sans Type face, the musicals of Andrew Lloyd Webber and _bloody Capricorns._ Crowley had endured them all and yet somehow, _somehow_ , all paled into comparison when held up to the excruciating awfulness that was been woken up early by someone who insisted on being _cheery_ about it. Cheery about it because he was annoyed that Crowley had forgotten their engagement, again, and there was nothing that annoyed the King of Hell like pretending early mornings were the most wonderful invention sliced ready diced focaccia.

(He didn’t even need to sleep. That somehow made it worse, Aziraphale bloody well knew that the only reason he did it was because he enjoyed it – which just made waking him up an act of the calibre of evil that Angels weren’t supposed to possess. Crowley begged to differ)

“It’s a beautiful, sunshiney morning and the Ritz are going to start serving breakfast soon.”

 _Start_ serving? But that would make it….

“It’s seven in the BLOODY MORNING?” he roared, tugging an exasperated hand through his hair. “SEVEN?”

“In London, dear. I think it’s a small difference. Five, maybe six hours? But I could hardly go altering time and space just to make sure they were still serving the morning Earl Grey and not that afternoon blend abomination, could I?”

The crime of being woken up at seven am was clearly completely lost on the angel.

Aziraphale was what was termed, in the fieriest pits of hell, a "Morning Person." Crowley hated morning people.

And mornings.

And people.

And of course he particularly hated Aziraphale, who was his best friend.

“Anyway, in the grand scheme of all things breakfast related, yes, my dear old stick, seven. I hear today’s jam is apricot and pineapple. Doesn’t that sound divine?”

Crowley fixed his friend with the sort of glare that had sinners racing for the nearest monastery, shaving their heads and promising to wear sackcloth and ashes and ring bells like a pillock for the rest of their natural lives.

“I abhor the divine.”

Aziraphale cracked the sort of smile that inspired thousands of impressionable young artists to write awful gospel music. “I know you do, sweet thing. Anyhoo – what’s all this you wanted to tell me about a book?”

Aziraphale liked books. No, that was an understatement. Aziraphale ‘liked’ books in the way that Crowley found that most people ‘liked’ breathing (particularly when quite literally ‘pressed’ on the subject). Crowley was fairly certain that Angels didn’t go in much for making babies, but if they did, Aziraphale was the type to consider selling his first born for a really nice, limited edition hardback. Not that Crowley held anything against people who chose to sell their first born children – he’d just rather hold out for a better trade. Eternal damnation, for instance. Or a 1926 Black Bentley in mint condition.

(Crowley just so happened to own one of the latter, but had learned the hard way that it was best to keep anything resembling a nice, classic car about as far away from the Winchesters as was demonically possible)

“It’s over there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Sam Winchester’s journal and wondered if he could squeeze in another ten minute nap whilst Aziraphale read it. It wasn’t as if they’d have trouble finding a table when they zapped to London, after all. Table reservations were something that happened to lesser mortals, not divine beings.

“The nice and accurate predictions of Sam Winchester, Hunter” the Angel mused out loud. “And you’re sure this is-“

“Deadly sure. It looks like the kid’s been having the premonitions for weeks if you check the dates, though I only started picking up on them last night. There was one on the shopping list earlier, I’m using it as a bookmark.”

“Let me see…” the Angel adjusted his glasses and peered as the hastily scrawled scrap of paper. Angels didn’t actually need to wear glasses at all, naturally, but Aziraphale always felt that he had a certain image to live up to. An image with a cravat and nice shoes, at all times. “Romaine lettuce, bread, mozzarella, olives, apples, butter, rice, HELL SHALL COME UPON YOUR DOOR AND THE LIGHTNING SHALL STRIKE OUT THY HEART, lemon sole goujons, marmalade, lasagne sheets, anchovies and tomatoes.”

“Definitely a sign of demonic activity, wouldn’t you say.”

“Certainly, my dear chap. It takes a twisted soul to ever consider putting anchovies in a lasagne.”

“The other part, Azzy, dear, the other part.”

“Oh”.

Crowley watched the Angel’s eyes skim back through the text, a frown playing about his features. “And he doesn’t remember writing it, you say?”

Crowley nodded “I took care of that, don’t you worry. These two will go running off after anything even the remotest bit bizarre – it’s best to keep them as in the dark as possible for the time being.”

“I see. And this ‘Sam’ himself? Might he tell his brother before you have a chance to fix things next time.”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe I should go and check up on him again in a bit.”

Aziraphale’s gaze turned stony. “ _After_ breakfast, Crowley.”

“Oh course, dear. I meant _after_ breakfast.”

 

* * * *

 

No matter what was happening around him, Cas had developed one seriously impressively talent since his stint as a human and that was the ability to sleep just about anywhere, in any situation.

In this case, he’d been out almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow, once Dean had declared that the bunker was secured and there wasn’t much that could be done until Sam felt like talking to him again in the morning. The only trouble was, it was Dean’s pillow.

Dean was trying not to let it bother him. It wasn’t a big deal whilst he wasn’t even trying to sleep, anyway. He could just wake Cas up and kick him out once he was ready to grab four hours himself. No sense in doing it any sooner, he’d just have a grumpy Angel on his hands and that would inevitably get in the way of his research.

Oh, what the hell. He hated research anyway.

Dropping the book to the side of the bed, Dean lay back and stared at the ceiling, taking care to keep his arms and legs untangled from the Angel. Cas needed his rest, he assumed. He could never really keep up these days on whether the Angel needed to sleep or not. The thought left a guilty twinge behind and Dean chewed his lip in thought. It was something he should know, really. I mean, if they were out on a hunt or something, he should know if Cas was going to be tired. It was only sensible. Maybe he’d ask him later, just to be on the safe side.

Fidgeting, he wriggling out of his shoes and kicked them off. There was something disappointingly weird about the prophecy/inscription thingy. The more he thought about it, the more he starting to think that the words were a bit…lame? As if an eighth grader had tried to write a scary story or something.

It was probably nothing. Not all dark forces were poets, after all. It was just that they were usually a little more artistically inclined than whoever had taken out their frustrations on his favourite kitchen utensils, anyway. Maybe some supernatural beings just weren’t all that good at poetry.

Dean wondered if Cas was any good at poetry.

Probably not, if he insisted on taking everything literally all the time. He wondered if Angels ever went in for that sort of thing, or whether they all preferred to state the obvious and recite scripture at people all the time. Maybe he’d ask Cas that later too. Once he’d reclaimed his bed and sent Cas back to his until morning.

Dean quickly abandoned that little plan when the Angel didn’t react to the experimental shake he gave his shoulder. He wasn’t in the mood to spend hours trying to wake him up.

Dean didn’t really need his share of the covers anyway, which was lucky considering that Cas was currently lying on top of them. It was a warm enough night, after all. He only really needed a quick cat nap and then he had work to do.

Still pondering over what kind of demon writes piss-poor poetry in their spare time, Dean let his eyes drift shut. He only needed to rest them for a moment, he told himself. Just a moment.

 

* * *

 

There were many things about London that reminded Crowley of hell. Stepping off the street and descending into gloomy, airless nothingness as millions of grim-faced commuters avoided eye contact as if it were some kind of national pastime; it made him think of home in the good old days. Fire and brimstone were all very well, but he was willing to bet that more people standing on the platform today were thinking wistfully of being elsewhere, _anywhere_ elsewhere than even the citizens of hell.

They didn’t do a lot of thinking, on the whole. Crowley suspected that it might change of he could get Lucifer’s lot to keep the bloody noise down once in a while, but he knew better than to ask.

Lucifer, despite his boasts to the contrary, wasn’t the greatest architect that hell could have wished for. There was just something so _unimaginative_ about never ending pain and torment. It was the sort of tedious penitent nonsense a medieval monk would come up with, for badness sake.

You could always trust people who weren’t allowed to think about sex to end up thinking about doing nasty things to people instead – Crowley had noticed this many times during his various jaunts around the earth’s surface.

If you couldn’t find a victim who was chronically celibate, however, London commuters worked pretty well too.

As he often did when he was bored (if there were no decent box sets or a bottle of Cava in the direct vicinity) Crowley reached out and touched his thoughts to the man closest to him. Ah. This was a good one.

The man reminded him a little of the dumb Angel that the Winchesters were always hanging around with. Dark hair, blue eyes, a kicked puppy expression and a vague air of  one whose pent up sexual frustration is giving them the emotional equivalent of bad wind. Except he very much doubted that Castiel spent an awful lot of time happily visualising the many and varied ways he would like to torture his colleagues to death with a coat hanger and a bag of mini babybel cheeses. Crowley relaxed and watched the happily little film reel of dark thoughts over and over again until the train came and the young man boarded.

Crowley did like humans sometimes. However hard he tried to make their pathetic little lives miserable, they could always not only beat him to it but do it better. If they weren’t walking around self destructing all over their silly little lives, they were taking their bad moods out on other people who were taking them out on other people who were going home and kicking their cats in a sort of spiteful Catherine Wheel of general horridness.

No matter what Crowley thought of to do to someone, some human had always thought of it first and added their own little poison cherry on top.  Sometimes he considered shutting down hell for the week, dishing out the popcorn and letting the unhappy little residents of Earth just _get on with it_.

Take reality television, for instance. Now Crowley, _Crowley_ bet he could write a pretty awesome horror movie if he put his mind to it. Blood, guts, axe wielding lunatics, the works. Because he got that stuff – senseless violence, mindless destruction, he could get right on board with all of those things and more. When humans tried it though, it was never enough to make another human being suffer. Not if you could humiliate them on national television, rip out any shred of self esteem they ever possessed and then plaster the results on Youtube.

Humans had a world of wonders to entertain them, but they’d rather get their kicks from making each other cry. There was something about that that Crowley was just a little in awe of.

He’d showed his X Factor auditions playlist to Aziraphale once, who had immediate gone for a little lie down to recover. Simon Cowell, now there was a man after Crowley’s own heart.

Why a Lord of Hell and an Angel of the Lord had to faff about getting the underground in the first place, Crowley wasn’t sure but it was one of those things that Azzy liked to do and there seemed very little point in arguing. Once, when he’d pressed Aziraphale on the subject, the Angel had insisted that it was his solemn duty to try and spread a little Grace through the London Transport network on a busy Monday morning. If he didn’t, half of this lot would go off to work in a foul mood, shout at their secretary, break their favourite mug, shout at about a dozen people and then go home and be an asshole to their wives and children.

Aziraphale called this “stopping the contagion.”

Crowley called it “spoiling the fun”

He’d go along with it, though, if there was eggs benedict and earl grey at the end of all this. Plus, Aziraphale was paying (or sticking it on Heaven’s tab, at any rate). He always did these days. Crowley suspected it was a change that had come about at some point after he realised that Crowley was not all that in favour of ‘paying’ for things like a normal, civilised being. It might have been the time in Café Rouge when he’d tried to internally combust that spotty young waiter who’d insisted on a bigger tip that had done it. He didn’t know was Aziraphale had been so cross about – it wasn’t as if he’d ripped out the boy’s liver first.

Once the train arrived they squashed on like morning-suited sardines and set about their usual morning routine, Aziraphale smiling at everyone and Crowley taking great delight in trying to trip every harried looking commuter who tried to squeeze past. If there was anything odd about an Angel and a Demon taking an early morning stroll through the City, no Londoner ever noticed. Crowley secretly liked to think that this was because they were all too busy being crippled by the misery of their daily lives. The thought made him smile.

The disembark at Green Park always involved a pleasant ride up the escalators and Crowley would often wonder if Aziraphale would be quick enough if he sent a couple of commuters tumbling down on the other side. He hadn’t taken that chance yet – the Angel had given him such a filthy stare when a harried looking banker’s laptop case had sprung open (Crowley, being innocent of any wrongdoing for once, had been rather hurt at the implication that he’d be so obvious) that he worried that he might end up on the wrong end of a smiting if he tried anything before the Angel had got to his croissants and jam.

Instead he focussed on the moving posters that decorated either side of the escalator concourse. It was mostly the usual stuff, but it was always nice to spot some creative input from his own team, back down in the pits of inferno.

“Legally Blonde, the Musical!”

“Eat Kale!”

“Join tough mudder this Autumn” (when his team had told him that they knew how to get humans to voluntarily crawl through freezing mud in excruciating pain for hours, Crowley had laughed. Never, ever underestimate humanity’s masochistic streak)

“CROWLEY. RETURN THE JOURNAL AT ONCE. OR SPOLERS FOR MADE IN CHELSEA WILL RAIN DOWN LIKE FIRE UPON THY TIVO BOX”

Wait, _what?_

The poster was quickly out of sight, leaving Crowley scrambling around for a better look. The handwriting was the same as he’d seen in the journal, he was sure of it. But Sam wasn’t in London. Sam was thousands of miles away, he couldn’t be writing oddly chilling messages all over TFL property.

“Azzy?”

“Crowley, sugar lump, you know I don’t like being called that in public. Oh and _do_ stop tugging on my sleeve like that, you know it pulls the-“

“ _Look!”_

It was lucky that Aziraphale possessed the enhanced vision that all heavenly beings shared, as the poster was well out of ordinary view by now.

“My goodness.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Did you bring the journal along?”

Crowley was about to answer _Yes, it fancied the full English and a cup of tea_ but for once his sarcasm was gone, hiding somewhere behind a sense of vague terror and a gnawing feeling that something was horribly wrong. Instead he just nodded.

“Maybe we should read it again over breakfast.” The Angel was frowning again. “If something out there wants this back, we should familiarise ourselves with its contents just in case…”

“Just in case, what?”

The escalator ended and they disembarked in unison, falling into step. The ticket barriers opened with a quick swish of the Angel’s hand (apparently serial fare evasion didn’t count as a sin in whatever Angel classes Aziraphale had been taking) and soon they were at the steps to the street. Finally, the Angel answered him. “Just in case they are successful.”

Crowley’s heart sank. Whatever he might have thought they were dealing with, he’d always sort of assumed that his friend would be able to zap it away with a minimum of fuss if it actually tried anything. But Aziraphale was worried. That made Crowley worried. Very worried indeed.

Crowley didn’t like being worried.

“If they try it, we’ll fry them. Speaking of which, I think I smell brioche. Come along, Az.”

The Angel linked him arm through Crowley’s as they strode onto the street and toward the front door of The Ritz hotel. There was one thing Crowley knew for certain about every threat, diabolical power and disaster in the whole, wide world and that was that he would rather face them all on a full stomach.

 

* * *

 

“Stop staring at me.”

Dean didn’t even bother to open his eyes. Years of practice had taught him pretty well to know when he was being stared at and right now he was being stared at with all the subtlety of a Cheshire Cat eyeing up its favourite Goldfish in the tank. Dean only wished he had such small mercies as a tacky plastic castle to hide behind.

“I told you, Cas, it’s just creep-“

Slowly, something clicked into place in the hunter’s brain, cutting him off mid sentence. Something he’d been dimly aware of, a thought in the back of his mind, lightly knocking on his consciousness, demanding entry. The thought needed to tell him something important.

Cas was still snoring softly beside him.

Dean froze, one hand twitching as he wondered whether he should make a grab for a weapon. Someone was there, in his bedroom, of all places and he very much doubted that whoever it was had come to join their little impromptu sleepover.

Cautiously, Dean inched one eye open.

For a second, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure by the door but it was gone before his brain could even start to register who it might be. Gone with a rustle of feathers and a flutter of wings.

He hadn’t even realised he’d made a grab as Cas’s hand until he felt warm fingers squeezing his. The Angel was still fast asleep and dreaming, oblivious to any thought of their mysterious night time visitor.

Had he been dreaming too? He didn’t think so – he was wide awake now at least and with no chance of going back to sleep this side of dawn after that little episode. It was weird enough when it was Cas doing it – he didn’t want a whole heavenly host gazing down at him whilst he drooled into his pillow at night.

How did whoever it was get in, anyway? He’d done a double sweep of the bunker last night, after checking on Sammy and there had been no one there then, he was sure of it. No, whoever had defaced the kitchen and whoever had been perving on him this morning had been elsewhere late last night. Which meant (and Dean’s insides clenched to think of it) that whoever had got in had got in (and out) twice without his knowledge. Some part of him that he’d later insist was his subconscious gave Cas’s hand another quick squeeze. Maybe he’d have to talk Cas out of this newfound fondness for sleep and back into the creepy staring thing. It had to be better than having mysterious supernatural beings practically molest him with their eyeballs in his sleep.

Well, mysterious supernatural beings other than Cas.

If Sam was here, he’d have accused him of overreacting but Dean had felt the intent of that stare. He shuddered. It had been a stare straight thought the covers and straight onto him. He was glad for once that he’d slept in his clothes.

Something weird was going on. That in its self wasn’t particularly unusual, but damn it, it was a pain in the arse. A voyeuristic, creepy, annoying pain in the arse.

Well, he was awake now so he might as well get down to business. The sooner the kitchen mystery got sorted, the sooner he could move on to warding the crap out his bedroom to make sure he’d actually be able to sleep tonight.

He carefully extricated his fingers and flexed them experimentally, still stiff from sleep. He’d been out for about three hours or so but it would have to do, like hell was he taking another cat nap without an armed guard to keep peeping demons away.

The bunker was quiet we he opened his bedroom door but he grabbed a knife anyway. It was only sensible. Handy too, if he was planning to start breakfast early

 * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make Crowley muse happy, kids.


	3. Thursday 4am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, in which Aziraphale and Crowley do brekkers, Dean does dusting and Sam is in a spectacularly bad mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely readers, I can't believe you all came back to subject yourself to more of this madness - enjoy!

There was something wonderfully comforting about the fact that no matter what horrors were sweeping through the UK capital or dark forces were terrorising the very Lords of Hell, the Ritz still served its toast as a shining example of absolute perfection. In the Ritz hotel, nothing burned and everything had its butter spread perfectly evenly across its surface. Hell could learn from the Ritz. Not the butter part, Crowley wasn’t that kinky. The not burning by accident part – sinners were so terribly flammable sometimes and simply no fun once they had been reduced to a quivering pile of ashes.

Eating toast, in general, was better than being burnt as a heretic in the seventh circle of oblivion. Crowley had many opinions shared by all too few, but he felt that this one was most probably held by all sane people, which made him feel strangely proud. He said as much to Aziraphale who to Crowley’s great annoyance failed to so much as look up from his new and in-depth study of Sam Winchester’s journal. Instead, much to Crowley’s chagrin, he verbally spurned his companion with the failsafe response of all tired parents, long suffering husbands and busy angels everywhere.

“Yes dear”

It was a lucky thing that Crowley had toast to provide a distraction from his oncoming sulk. Aziraphale rarely noticed when Crowley was sulking with him, reasoning that the demon was grumpy, irritable and irrationally angry all of the time anyway and he couldn’t honestly be expected to pay attention to what kind of grumpy, irritable and irrationally angry he was being _this_ time.

Briefly, Crowley pondered whether he could exact some sort of horrible revenge on the angel, in order to get his attention. He liked having Aziraphale’s attention, almost as much as he enjoyed Aziraphale’s despairing looks whenever he’d managed to pull off something suitably evil. He’d been working on this fantastic new technique where he placed upturned Lego bricks under people’s bare feet but decided against trying it right there and then - it seemed a little excessively cruel before breakfast.

He settled instead for hiding the tiny pot of pineapple and apricot jam. That would teach the Angel not to be more respectful of Crowley’s blackened and practically nonexistant feelings.

The small act of malice relaxed Crowley somewhat. It always did. He assumed it had something to do with reminding himself that he was, in fact, a manifestation of evil and manifestations of evil didn’t have to worry about diary stealing, Atlantic jumping evil forces. Ever.

Crowley eventually settled on a revenge of helping himself to a first, second and third slice of the complimentary toast whilst his companion remained absorbed in the diary. There were, after all, some perks to being ignored.

Sometimes those perks involved jam.

“This is very worrying, Crowley”

 _You’re telling me_ , Crowley thought, _Anything that can put you off your ridiculously fancy pants gnosh has got the be pretty serious. Seriously, eat something, you’re freaking me out._

“Crowley, I think these prophecies are fulfilling themselves through this book.”

It seemed a fairly wild conclusion to jump to, considering that he personally had seen no evidence whatsoever of any such thing occurring.

“Az, I keep telling you. We have nothing to fear from that-“

He stopped dead. His breakfast had arrived. With BLOODY FRIED TOMATOES ON IT.

Tomatoes. Bloody tomatoes. Evil in the wrong way and _nothing_ in the right way. Bloody hell, if the sodding serpent had offered Adam a fried tomato from the tree of knowledge, mankind would probably still be living it up in Eden, as far as Crowley was concerned. There was never a good reason for tomatoes.

“And the moment you think you are happy, you shall realise the blood red stain of corruption hath destroyed that which you hold dear. Your joy will turn to ash in your mouth” he recited. Oh heaven and hell, that bloody book had done him over properly and now he was going to…

Aziraphale banished the tomatoes with a casual wave of his hand. Crowley hoped that they had suffered horribly in the process. He stared plaintively at his plate.

“It’s no good” he muttered, “I still know that there WERE tomatoes”

Aziraphale had gone back to ignoring him, so Crowley ate a rasher of bacon when he wasn’t looking. As long as Aziraphale thought he was suffering and going hungry that would have to do. His sob story was somewhat ruined by the fact that he didn’t actually need to eat or even get hungry in the first place, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that.

Aziraphale probably already did know that, being a celestial being and all, but Crowley was damned if he was going to remind him.

Technically, he WAS damned but there was no point in being the King of Hell if you couldn’t contradict yourself once in a while and then smite anyone who picked you up on it. Or smite everyone for the hell of it, whether they’d contradicted you or not.

Blimey, if he kept this up, he was going to have to smite _himself_.

“There’s another one here” Aziraphale was busy making notes in what Crowley really hoped wasn’t REALLY a pink, sparkly gel pen with a light peachy scent. It was the very thesis of “Pens you probably shouldn’t you to annotate a one of a kind book of huge supernatural and evidential importance.” Crowley worried about his friend, sometimes.

“Beware the devil, for he shall lure you in to steal away that which is sweetest to you”.

 

Crowley surreptitiously snuck the pot of pineapple and apricot jam back onto the table. “I think that one’s a dud”

“I saw that, Crowley.”

“Okay, okay, so a couple of the prophecies came true. But they were about our breakfast. Why would anyone, least of all Sam Winchester, bother prophesising about our breakfast?”

Aziraphale considered this for a moment or two. “It is odd, I grant you that… unless. . .”

“Unless he psychically knew I was going to steal it, call you, fly to London, go to the Ritz and order a full English breakfast WITHOUT tomatoes?”

“Well, when you put it like that. . . “

“. . . it doesn’t sound very likely, does it?”

“Would you like the long answer, or the short answer?” Crowley stabbed a sausage with his fork, wondering if a second breakfast might go some way to aiding his recovery after his nasty shock.

“The short answer, please.”

“No.” Crowley flashed a grin and started on the bacon.

“And the long?”

“Noo-oo-oo-oo-oo.” He drew out the syllable until Aziraphale had finished rolling his eyes and given up some hint of a smile. The Angel couldn’t help himself. No one could make a hellishly unfunny joke like a true knight of hell.

“So, what’s next in Winchester’s little book of tricks?” Crowley wasn’t entirely certain that he even wanted to know.

“Something about the deliverance of a message of grim reality, bringing forth centuries of sin upon you, Crowley.”

The sound of an apologetic throat clearing caught their attention.

“Um… Mr Crowley? Mr Aziraphale? The management just asked me to bring this over. It’s payable today.”

In horrified unison, angel and demon slowly lowered their collective gazes to the scrap of paper which lay between them on the table. The numbers at the top were over a hundred years old.

Sitting between them, was the six figure bill for Crowley and Aziraphale’s tab.

* * *

There were probably better things for a hunter in fear for the security of his headquarters to be doing than launching a ferociously attack on any trace of dirt with a mop and bucket, but Dean couldn’t honestly think of any, right at that moment. The kitchen was a mess.

He hated the kitchen being a mess.

And someone had messed up the order of his colour coded chopping knives, which was just cruel. He could have understood a straightforward theft, but where the hell did this freak get off on disturbing the natural order of kitchen utensils? It was sick, that’s what it was.

He worked with his back to his brutally mauled chopping board, averting his eyes in the same way one might try to avoid looking directly at road kill splattered on the side of a country lane.

There was a notepad on the fridge, for crying out loud. With a detachable PEN! It would have been far more trouble to find a knife and painstakingly carve those words in than just behave like a normal, civilised human and write the damn message down.

Or better yet, act like a civilised person and just not break into someone’s home in the first place – that would work too.

It was still early, far too early to be thinking about cooking, but his stomach had started picking up on the fact that he was not only in the kitchen but also in the presence of butter, eggs, sugar and flour.  Pancakes beckoned. Sam would not approve but Cas definitely would.

Ignoring the steadily increasing rumbles, Dean continued cleaning. Cleaning calmed him down sometimes when it wasn’t even remotely appropriate to source alcohol. He was fairly certain it wasn’t remotely appropriate to drink right now, was it? If it was 2am, maybe, but it was closing in on 6am now and he had technically been to sleep which made it a morning of sorts.

Of sorts.

He wished it wasn’t. He wished he could close his eyes and wake back up playing that stupid board game with Cas instead of drowning in creepy nightmare staring contests and mutilated cookware. He supposed a small mercy was that the night was very nearly officially over and was therefore quite unlikely to get markedly worse.

The phone rang.

* * *

There were three things that Sam Winchester hated with all his being.

Hangovers

Rain

Being killed and tortured by hell creatures with a special penchant for hair pulling.

He could tell through the shaking fingers that cradled his throbbing head that it was raining outside. Great. Now all he needed was Crowley to show up with a Babyliss Styling Wand and his shitty morning would be fully complete.

 

Had he been drinking last night? He didn’t think so. Much as the headache, the nausea and the vague feeling that something had crawled into his mouth and died at some point in the evening begged to differ.

What HAD he done last night, anyway? He didn’t remember getting to bed, or going to sleep or even getting back to the bunker. Maybe he should add ‘unexplained memory loss’ to the list of rapidly growing evidence that he’d spent last night on the mother of all benders. Though he very much doubted that if he had been drunk enough to pass out and forget everything that he’d have had the presence of mind to tidy away all of the empty bottles of beer or tequila or vodka or (heavens forfend) Archers Peach Schnapps afterward. He’d ask Dean and Cas about it later. Knowing them, they’d either have an explanation or some video footage and, if it turned out to be the latter, it was best he knew the location of the footage now so that he could go about destroying it as thoroughly as was humanly possible.

Groaning at the protests that his aching body gave, Sam shifted up into a sitting position and observed the room through hazy eyes.

Well, that was strange…

Someone, or perhaps something, had covered the entire wall beside his bed with hastily scrawled graffiti. Graffiti, it seemed, in his own handwriting.

Sam was no stranger to embarrassing drunken behaviour, albeit usually other people’s, but writing utter nonsense in sharpie all over his freshly decorated bedroom wall seemed a little out of the ordinary. Usually there was dancing involved. Or singing. Or, in more serious cases, both. At the same time,

“The hunter shall awake” he read aloud.

He assumed it was a metaphor. If it wasn’t, it was a pretty lame prophecy. What was more, it was cheating. He may as well have predicted ‘hunter has bad bed hair’ or ‘hunter has morning breath’. Straightening out his stiffening limbs, he forced himself into a half walk, half stagger toward the bathroom.

He brushed his teeth in a hurry, eager to rid himself of the taste of dead skunk or whatever the hell it was. Shoving the toothbrush back in the mug, he reached for the hot tap and let it run until it was just the right side of scalding.

The hot water provided a welcome relief and he splashed his face with it until his skin began to burn. At least he was awake now. He reached to turn off the hot tap and let out a help of surprise.

There was another message traced into the steam covered mirror.

“The hunter shall brush his teeth”

It was almost as if whoever it was wasn’t even trying.

 

“This isn’t funny.” He wasn’t sure who he was even addressing, but if he did have a psychic stalker he was keen for them to know that he wasn’t even remotely impressed. Considering he and his brother had fought the very kings of hell and the servants of heaven in the past, it would take more than stating the obvious in a bathroom mirror to strike fear into his heart.

He sighed, pulling the plug and wearily watching the water drain away. When he looked up, the message had changed.

“The hunter shall go and put his clothes on. Preferably the jeans that make him look particularly doable and the blue shirt that has the moose on it.”

Sam stared at the message, trying to repress a laugh. He didn’t want to give whoever this was the satisfaction of thinking they had amused him. Something about the tone of the last message made him want to simultaneously roll his eyes and raise a smile.

Strangely, there was something familiar about that feeling. Something that gave him a weird fluttery feeling in his chest. He shrugged it off, it was probably nothing. Probably the effect of all that alcohol he didn’t remember drinking in the first place.

What was all that crap about a shirt with a moose on, though? He didn’t own a shirt with a…

Sam exhaled in exasperation as he caught sight of the pale blue t-shirt draped over the back of his chair. Right. So he was being stalked by some kind of supernatural being who liked to buy him presents and make stupid predictions? If he didn’t know better, he’d think that…

“Gabriel?”

There was no answer. He hadn’t really been expecting one and that made him kick himself for the feelings of disappointment that flooded through him for a few moments. No, come to think of it, all of this wasn’t Gabriel’s style.

Oh, who was he kidding? This was exactly the sort of thing the Angel would find amusing.

Why was he even thinking of Gabriel? Was the guy even around? Sam didn’t know and it suddenly _bothered_ him that he didn’t know. Screw it, he’d ask Cas later or something, it was none of his concern really.

The shirt was kind of cool though.

Knowing that the Angel would mock him mercilessly for it if he ever found out, Sam pulled on the offending T shirt and dug out the jeans he knew the message in the mirror referred. Maybe if he tried to get whoever was doing this on side they might actually show themselves and tell him what they wanted. If they wanted to hurt him they had had their chances, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk a little.

“How do I look?” he asked no one in particular. When there was no answer he wondered for a moment if he should pray.

No, that was ridiculous. Where had he got this stupid idea about Gabriel into his head anyway? Even if the angel were able to, he wouldn’t be spending his spare time hanging around Sam Winchester.

Whatever was messing with him was probably a mischievous ghost, or an imp or a demon of some kind. A good salt and burn would sort it out.

* **

There were few things that could convince the angel Aziraphale to use his powers against humans. He was annoyingly pacifist and more than a little bit antisocial, which meant that he wasn’t exposed much to doorstep sellers, really slow drivers and all the other subsections of the human race who Crowley would happily have killed on sight. The demon suspected that, if he had been, he’d have abandoned his ‘thou shalt not harm’ stance in favour of a good smiting long ago.

Even now, the angel was trying to rectify the situation, heat rising in his face as the waiter reiterated for the fourth time that yes, he _knew_ it was a bit sudden but Sir had always known the tab would have to be settled eventually and they _did_ accept all major credit cards and perhaps Sir would like to make a down payment before leaving to contact his bank?

Azzy didn’t have a bank account, Crowley knew. He’d popped into one once with a view to saving the soul of a young lady who worked behind the counter but had run out when he was overpowered by the stench of greed and envy that seeped throughout the building.

He also refused a credit card on the basis that Crowley’s continual use of non-existent monies had caused the global credit crunch. Twice.

No one else knew that little palaver was Crowley’s fault thankfully. He’d blamed it on bankers and Americans, which amused him thoroughly. You could always trust capitalists to cling on to the ownership of anything at all – even if it was the effective responsibility for screwing the world over so badly you were now less welcome than a hog roast at the ‘national confederation of Vegans’ annual summit.

(We need to get out of here)

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin when Aziraphale’s thoughts touched his own. His friend was always insisting that it was at best morally dubious and at worst a horrific violation to force your way into someone else’s mind unbidden. It was almost the sole reason he owned an iPhone, purchased on a mates rates deal from Crowley himself.

Crowley always got mates rates at the Apple store and the Angel had never figured out why. That amused him endlessly. It wasn’t as if the affiliation was even subtle – a bitten APPLE for hell’s sake.

(Should we say we’re going to the bathroom?)

(Why?)

(Well it would look a bit weird if we just disappeared from the middle of the room, wouldn’t it?)

(We could memory wipe them all afterwards)

Lucifer below, it must be serious if the Angel was suggesting smiting the brains of forty-odd innocent humans as they chewed their way through a well-earned pain au chocolat. (Coincidentally another invention of Hell’s leading design and Pain department, as every woman who has ever embarked on a diet whilst within walking distance of a patisserie will agree)

(Just follow my lead, Angel)

At that precise moment, an innocuously flowering cactus burst into flames. Coincidentally, it happened to reside directly under the Hotel’s loudest and most sensitive smoke alarm.

Crowley winked at his companion and grabbed at his hand.

A few seconds later, the young waiter turned his head back to inform the two rather strange gentlemen that they would have to evacuated the premises and found their table completely empty. He scratched his head, wondering how on earth they could both have snuck out without him noticing. He would have to take the bill back to the manager and explain that…

Explain that….

Explain…

Come to think of it, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was he’d need to explain to the manager.

Or where he was.

Or what he was doing.

Perhaps, the young waiter thought to himself, it was time to take some time off. The stress appeared to be getting to him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make Crowley a happy demon.


	4. Thursday 6am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam has pancakes, Crowley has caramel sauce and a London cabbie has a very bad morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Finished this one off on the plane back from Helsinki so apologise for any jetlagged weirdness.
> 
> Though, would you even notice this story getting weirder? ;-)

****

Dean eyed his mobile with the wary caution of someone who knew precisely how possible it was that the offending object might spring forth and bite him. Nothing (save perhaps one tipsy and pleading phone call to his Angel to fly in with more hotdogs at 3am that he would never, ever mention out loud) good ever came of a phone ringing before six o clock in the morning. He was tempted to ignore it, seeing as the only two people he felt sure he possessed the enthusiasm to even go and rescue in his current mood were tucked up in bed within easy earshot of the kitchen.

About as much good came from ignoring pre 6am phone calls as answering them, however and so Dean mustered what little energy he possessed and picked it up.

“Hello?”

A scuffling noise on the other end broke up into the sound of giggling. A prank call at this hour? There was a special place in hell for people who found that kind of thing amusing. (There really was, he vaguely remembered spotting the door sign on his last visit.)

“Anyone there?”

Straining to hear, he thought he heard a voice squeal ‘it _is_ him, I told you so’ before being shushed by several of the gigglers.

“Look, if you’re about to be eaten or something, say now, ‘cause if you don’t I’m going back to bed.”

The voice that came on the line sounded no older than thirteen. The sort of voice that should have been busy playing My Little Pony, not calling a Hunter’s bunker in the middle of the damned night.

“No, Mr Winchester, we’re all good here.” The line cut off, leaving Dean staring not at his screen. Unsurprisingly the number had been withheld. Damn kids.

With a good deal more force than previously, he turned his attention back to the pancake mix.

Sometimes he wondered why the hell the world couldn’t just leave him alone once in a while. Everyone had the right to a peaceful evening in and an uninterrupted breakfast of pancakes once in a while, didn’t they? No matter how chosen or cursed or otherwise screwed up his life might have been, he wasn’t ready to accept that he couldn’t at least have that once or twice in a damned eternity.

The batter hit the frying pan with a satisfying hiss and soon the unmistakable smell of pancakes in creation began to waft its calming magic throughout the kitchen.

Dean finally allowed some of the tension that had made itself at home in his shoulders start to slip away. Pancakes, he decided, were good. There was nothing supernatural about pancakes. Never had been, never would be.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed he was free from an audience. Good. With a grin, he drew the pan back and ever so carefully positioned his hand for his next move. However much easier it was to use a spatula, it just wasn’t _pancakes_ if you didn’t get in at least one good flip. With Sam and Cas still safely asleep he also had the one other thing he needed – time to clean up the evidence if he completely ballsed it up.

With a rather inexpert flick of his wrist, Dean sent the pancake up and over, catching it with a whoop of triumph.

“Impressive.”

Dean whirled around, cursing for what felt like the hundredth time his little brother’s talent for sneaking up on people. Sam was lounging against the door frame, an amused grin playing about his featured as he watched his brother’s huffy expression. “I hope you were planning to share.”

For a moment, Dean considered telling him that he was planning to eat them all himself but thought better of it. A mouth full of pancake was likely to prevent his brother from talking for at least a couple of minutes and having to make an extra batch before he could eat his own breakfast was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

“You can have this one.”

Sam reached for a plate and held it out, grinning. “See. Big brothers have some uses after all.”

Dean clumsily transferred the pancake over, not even glancing in Sam’s direction before pouring the second lot of batter. He was way too hungry all of a sudden to waste time arguing. If he didn’t hurry up then Cas would be along too, sniffing around for his share. Introducing Cas to maple syrup had been a grave misjudgement.

At least the prospect of stealing his breakfast had cheered Sam up, which was a small mercy. The younger Winchester didn’t often get headaches, but boy was he a moose with a sore antler when he did.

He prodded as the batter impatiently, waiting for it to solidify enough to flip. If he did say so himself, he made damn good pancakes and the whole kitchen smelled like some kind of breakfast heaven right about then. Whatever side of the great celestial divide you fell on, you couldn’t deny that pancakes were seriously, seriously good.

Judging his latest creation ready for some specialist Winchester culinary mastery, Dean attempted his second pancake flip of the morning. This time, the catch was damn near perfect. He would have cheered out loud, except…

“Oh holy shit.”

There was another one.

Dean quickly moved the frying pan off the heat and reached to turn off the stove. Shit. This was almost worse than the chopping board fiasco. This was his damned breakfast, for crying out loud. What kind of evil force of crap messed around with a person’s breakfast?

Emblazoned onto his pancake were four perfectly burned words.

BEWARE HELLSPAWN BEARING GIFTS

“What’s up, you burn yourself?” Sam shovelled in another forkful of pancake before Dean could demand he share. “Dean?”

“We got ourselves a problem, Sammy.”

* * *

It was raining, there was a delay on the Northern Line and as far as the eye could see, London was choked with traffic. Millions of miserable souls crying out at the damned misery of it and offering up their prayers to anyone who could just turn that bloody traffic light _green._ It was truly inescapable and it was truly hellish.

All of a sudden Crowley was having a fantastic morning.

Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord and paragon of all that was right and virtuous, had just stiffed a bill, started and fire and bamboozled a completely innocent bystander. The demon was unsure he’d ever been prouder to call the angel his friend.

Call him his friend in his head, of course. Saying such a thing out loud wouldn’t do his well-managed reputation of aloof evil any good. Besides, it might give the angel the idea that Crowley actually liked him sometimes and that would be no good at all.

Thunder rolled across the gloomy sky, sending up a forest of dreary umbrellas. Crowley simply threw back his head and enjoyed.

Beside him, the Angel rolled his own eyes to the heavens and silently pleaded for forgiveness.

Heaven had always maintained what was either a tolerance or an ignorance over his relationship with Crowley and until now he’d never needed to know which it was. _Please, please let it be an ignorance._

If any of heaven were watching him now…

Aziraphale hastily pulled his hand out of Crowley’s and buried it deep into his coat pocket.

He could just about get away with exchanging notes on paranormal phenomena with a servant of the enemy, even if that discussion did take place over pastries and tea. Strolling hand in hand down a crowded street with a Lord of Hell was going to be a lot more difficult to explain. Of course, that part was in fact the most explicable – he’d needed skin to skin contact to zap Crowley out of there with him and had more or less forgotten to let go, but somehow he doubted heaven would buy any of his explanation when they had the option to scurrilously gossip about his private life instead.

Who was he kidding? He’d never be able to explain _any_ of this to heaven’s satisfaction. His only hope was that he wouldn’t have to even try.

“Angel, that was bloody well done.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Crowley right now. He knew without even glancing up that his friend would be beaming, no, practically _tap dancing_ with glee at the Angel’s exploits and that made it all so much worse. Hell was not supposed to approve of anything the angels did. That was the entire point.

Miserably, Aziraphale began to make his way through the rain. The sooner he left this entire morning behind him, the better.

Never one to take a hint that wasn’t delivered with a double sided battle axe, Crowley fell into step beside him, still extolling the lack of virtues of the whole affair.

“Never knew you had it in you, just bloody brilliant. So, where do you want to go next?”

“ _Next?”_  Did Crowley seriously think that Aziraphale was going to spend any more of his day behaving like a mischief daemon? The only place the Angel was going right now was home. For a bath. In holy water or something. He wasn’t sure how angels went about cleansing themselves after teetering horribly close to a minor fall but he was willing to improvise.

It was no use asking Crowley. That one had not so much ‘fallen’ as ‘sauntered vaguely downwards’ before working his way back up to Lucifer’s right hand.

Yes. He was Lucifer’s friend, he had to remember that.

Lucifer’s.

Not Aziraphale’s.

The Angel hunched his shoulders and prayed that somewhere convenient to disappear would present itself soon. He hated using the horrible toilet cubicles at the tube station – there wasn’t even room to stretch his wings in those things, but he’d consider it if Crowley carried on for another minute like this. He sounded so proud. It was awful.

“Yeah, next. Come on, you got through about three bites of your breakfast before it all kicked off. I’m starving.”

And with that he slung his arm casually around Aziraphale’s waist and squeezed.

Aziraphale made the unmistakable sound of a person preparing to do someone they are certain they will regret later.

“What? You not hungry, Angel?”

Of course he wasn’t hungry. He was an immortal being, for goodness sake, he didn’t eat _need_ to eat. It was just that the Ritz was so nice and the jam was so delicious and the company was… well, the company was actually a big, big problem and the sooner he admitted that to himself and ‘got real’ as Crowley would put it, the better. With a last, sad glance over his shoulder, Aziraphale vanished.

* * *

Fortunately for Aziraphale, heaven hadn’t been paying him all that much attention that morning. Nor had it had its many eyes on another of its more eccentric brethren. A brother who, coincidentally, was also having his breakfast ruined by unforeseen circumstances.

When Castiel had awoken to Dean Winchester shoving a plate of pancake under his nose in a gesture considerably more panicked than one would expect from an offer of breakfast in bed, his first thought had been that he really must remind the hunter that he only liked pancakes that had been smothered in maple syrup. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the thought – it wasn’t every day that Dean brought him breakfast after all, but he didn’t really fancy forcing his pancakes down dry.

Not that that actually turned out to be an option.

“It’s evidence, Cas, you can’t go around eating evidence. Dean will make you another batch later.” Sam had told him, snatching the plate out of harm’s way. Cas wasn’t convinced that Dean was in the mood to make any more pancakes, judging by the way he was pacing about the room with his jaw clenched so tightly the angel was sure it must be painful. The disappointment stung more than it probably should have.

It hadn’t helped much that he’d had to admit that he had no idea what kind of creature would send messages via pancake or what on earth the message meant. Except for the really obvious part about not accepting gifts from hellspawn, clearly.

His complete inability to shed any light on the subject without research didn’t so a great deal to help anyone’s mood, least of all his own. Cas didn’t like being clueless. Not as a human and certainly not as an Angel.

Eventually, Sam had announced that he was going to go and make coffee for their big research-a-thon and leave the two of them to figure out where the hell they should even start looking. His headache was starting to return and he was pretty sure this one was going to be in it for the long haul.

That left Castiel in what had become a horribly familiar situation. Staring at the back of Dean’s head, wondering what the heck he was meant to say.

Eventually, he settled for pushing the covers off and moving to sit beside his friend in what he hoped was a gesture of solidarity. Dean didn’t look up at first, but eventually green eyes met his own and a sad smile tugged at his lips.

“Can’t even make my own damn breakfast without all this demonic shit kicking off, man.”

“Dean. I know you would have made an excellent breakfast. Demons or not.”

Dean laughed and it was all horribly wrong. It was a self-loathing laugh. A laugh at himself and his own life. Castiel didn’t think either of those things were particularly funny.

“Anyway. I should go. You.. uh… you should go grab some of the leftovers from last night in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Cas felt as though he should say something then. Say _what_ exactly, he didn’t really know and so as ever he said nothing. Said nothing when he knew that there was something important that Dean needed to hear from him. Heaven above, the hunter was even staring right at him, waiting for whatever it was.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Fine. Right.”

Their gaze broke as Dean got to his feet, turning away to stretch. “I’ll see you in the library then.”

The angel nodded. “I..er… I’ll try and think of something, Dean.”

“Yeah. I know you will.”

* * *

It was raining harder than ever, there was still a delay on the Northern Line and as far as the eye could see, London was so choked with traffic that every occupant of every vehicle was developing a serious case of claustrophobia. All of a sudden Crowley was having a really, really shitty morning.

“Az?”

He knew there was no point in looking expectantly over his shoulder with the hopeful expression he knew had infected his features. He knew it and he did it anyway. It made him irrationally angry with himself for some reason.

With a flick of his hand, Crowley punctured the tyres of every bicycle waiting at the red lights and watched the ensuing panic without a trace of amusement. Funny, that sort of thing never usually failed to cheer him up.

Maybe Aziraphale had been called away on some urgent business or something. Yes, maybe that was it – heaven had summoned him without warning for something and so he hadn’t had any choice in the matter. Crowley focussed his mental energies on not only convincing himself of this suddenly obvious and unmistakable fact but also directing all of his new found anger toward heaven for being rude enough to interrupt their conversation like that. Before they’d even finished their second breakfast, for badness sake. Heaven should have known better than to display such dreadful manners.

His mood didn’t improve.

It was no good. He knew the truth and the truth hurt. Aziraphale had gone and left him of his own free will. Left him _and_ his offer of breakfast. He wasn’t sure which hurt worse.

Well, he’d show that feathery brained idiot. He’d figure out the prophecy mystery himself.

He’d eat another round of croissants too. Just for good measure.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Crowley turned and stalked across the road, making a black cab swerve and its driver curse. The enraged cabbie made to climb out and remonstrate with this brazen jaywalker but then Crowley turned and flashed a _smile_ and the man hurriedly scrambled back behind the wheel and averted his eyes, silently praying for the traffic to move. _Soon_.

Crowley turned into Starbucks, found himself a table and fished his 100% discount card for hell’s employees out of his wallet. Starbucks was easily one of the most successful exports of hell’s commerce and marketing division and even had the honour of crossing over into the territory of the ‘shameless exploitation’ and ‘dire drudging misery’ departments too. They had also invented the egg nog latte, which has been a stroke of evil genius so very, very brilliant that Lucifer himself had popped down to congratulate the team.

One of the Baristas suddenly remembered out of nowhere that they were supposed to be making a Massimo Caramel Frappuccino with extra whipped cream on top, and that it was extremely urgent. Crowley dusted off the diary and waited.

“One Massimo Caramel Frappuccino for the King of Hell?” an uncertain voice called. Crowley snapped his fingers and a passer-by picked it up and placed it on the table in front of him. Crowley didn’t thank him. Firstly because he was a demon and didn’t enjoy raising himself to such moral standards as being considerate or polite and secondly because his attention had been seized by the words printed on the cup.

AND THE DEMON WILL LEARN TO KEEP HIS GRABBY LITTLE HANDS TO HIMSELF IN FUTURE

The handwriting was the same. Crowley froze.

There were two real possibilities here: one, that the barista was in fact the malevolent presence that had been possessing Sam Winchester, scribbling on tube posters and generally attempting to bring about cataclysmic events with a lacklustre attempt at profound divination or (and Crowley considered this to be a little more likely, given that the Barista in question was about 14 and called ‘Tiffany’) whoever it was could not only make themselves completely unnoticeable to Crowley whilst at close quarters but had also been following him. It wasn’t a theory he was particularly fond of.

What gave some creepy stalker the right to make out _he_ was some kind of molester, anyway?

It wasn’t as if he’d been pawing all over the Angel. Nor was it Crowley’s fault that his friend was enough of a square to read way into a friendly little pat and a shared croissant or two.

Besides, he happened to know the Angel had a picture of the two of them as his iPhone background and so clearly had no problem with it. Crowley had _set_ the background, granted, but the Angel could have changed it. Or at least made an effort to work out _how_ to change it. When he wasn’t being a twit.

Which he probably wasn’t, he hastily reminded himself, the message wasn’t Aziraphale’s opinion and this mischief demon (or whoever it was) was clearly out to cause trouble. Between Crowley and Aziraphale for some completely bizarre reason. Where the Winchesters fitted into that picture, he had absolutely no idea. But anyway, Aziraphale would be back with a perfectly plausible explanation soon enough. He hoped.

At this rate he was going to have to do the unthinkable and ask Castiel’s opinion on the matter, and he’d need to have been drinking something far stronger than a Frappuccino for that to happen.

He licked at the whipped cream thoughtfully and wondered what the other angel would make of all this. He was close to Sam, after all. Well, close-ish. When he could tear his eyes away from Squirrel for more than 20 seconds.

Maybe he should ask him. Maybe Sam had been in contact with something really weird that might give him a lead on all of this. It was important enough to endure a phone conversation with the Angel of Thursday, he supposed.

But maybe he’d just _text_ Castiel about it, he really wasn’t in the mood to watch that numpty moon all over his human right then. Besides, he could text and lick the whipped cream off his drink at the same time.

 

Hey C

Noticed anything weird about Moose?

Hugs and kisses

C (the other, better looking C)

X x x

He wasn’t expecting a response back in any decent time frame and so he jumped a little when he phone buzzed into life moments later.

 

Is being kidnapped by

Girl Scouts with pentagrams

Considered weird?

C

X x x

 

Crowley blinked. Then he took a long drink from his Frappuccino and sighed.

 

C

I’ll be right there.

X x x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives hugs to commenters :-)
> 
> (except Aziraphale)


	5. Thursday 7:30am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't anyone get a Caramel Frappuccino in peace around here? Apparently not even when you're the King of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5, my little pallies - hope you all had a most marvelous festive season and ate loads of pudding.

If it wasn’t early enough for a hunter to have had his first coffee of the morning, it was definitely too early to be knocking on the front door. If said front door was extremely difficult to see or access without prior knowledge of its whereabouts, that was even worse. It was worse because it meant that any hunter with an ounce of conscience was going to have to open the damned thing to make sure that whoever was stood outside wasn’t:

a)      a human being in distress

b)      A non-human in distress

c)       An angel in distress

d)      Crowley

Actually, sod that last one. If Crowley was outside, he could wait. Better yet, he could bugger off and come back at a reasonable hour.

Or not come back at all. That worked for Sam just as well.

Besides, if he saw Sam making coffee he’d want one of those weirdo fancy pants ones with cream and syrup that Dean had for some reason insisted on getting the attachments and whirry things for and Sam really wasn’t in the mood to make him one.

Or, you know, in the mood for Crowley in generally.

Sam was _never_ in the mood for Crowley in general.

“I’ll be there in a minute” he yelled over the distant sound of the coffee machine working its magic. A noise that sounded suspiciously like teenage girls giggling reached his ears and he frowned. At least they didn’t sound in distress and they _definitely_ didn’t sound like Crowley. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans, avoiding his new t shirt and headed over to answer the knock.

It wasn’t Crowley.

“Um… hi?”

Outside was a gaggle of teenaged girls, all decked out in what Sam could only describe as some crazy occultist version of a girl scouts uniform. Each was proudly clutching a box of cookies and looking up at him expectantly. This day was just getting weirder and weirder.

“Cookies. Five dollars a box” the blonde one piped up. “All proceeds go towards the welfare of cute orphans who’ve lost parents and stuff due to apocalyptic evil.”

Sam stared at her with an expression that belied a strong desire to slam the door and go back to bed. With or without punching somebody in the face first.

“No, thank you.”

The blonde glowered. “Cookies. FIVE bucks. Orphans and shit.”

It wasn’t even seven in the morning, for crying out loud. There was suffering, then there was being an apocalypse orphan and _then_ there was dealing with this kind of crap before breakfast.

“I’m not really a great fan of cookies.”

Behind the blonde one, a short redhead with glasses hissed in exasperation.

“Dude. Just eat the cookie.” She turned to her friend and whispered something in her ear.

Now this was starting to get a little creepy. Generally, when things started to get a little creepy, Sam poured salt on the source and then set it on fire as a precaution. It was a tempting prospect. A very tempting prospect.

“Why do you want me to eat a cookie? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

A brunette at the back of the group gave a long suffering sigh. “I told you he wouldn’t fall for it. I spent ages putting all the narcotics in them, too!”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, one hand reaching out to quickly slam the door and get back to important caffeine-related matters.  “Why the hell would you want me to eat a cookie full of…”

The stunning spell hit him squarely in the chest.

* * *

It was clearly kidnap.

Coffee left half made on the side, milk taken out of the fridge and not returned, front door left hanging open… oh, and the presence of a hastily scrawled ransom note taped to the fridge.

At any other time, Dean might have been pleased that someone had finally got the memo regarding what the lined paper with handily attached pen was actually FOR instead of vandalising everything they could get their hands on but those other times generally involved his brother having not gone missing in extremely suspicious circumstances.

Beside him, Cas was setting out something of a plan of action with Crowley, of all people, via text.

Apparently he had somehow got himself involved in all of this too and needed some assistance in not bringing down the entire wrath of heaven upon him for recent misdemeanours. Dean didn’t much care for helping Crowley get _out_ of trouble but in the current circumstances he was willing to accept all the help he could possibly get.

“He’s going to meet us outside” Cas spoke suddenly. “Something about a book and a problem and not having any breakfast.”

He was hardly going to get any sympathy from them, Dean mused. Even after he and Cas had agreed to share the evidential pancake on the grounds of dedicating more time to research and less to cooking more breakfasty goodness, he was still hungry. And being hungry made him angry and being angry generally made him want to kill things. A lot.

The ransom note was an odd one. For one, it had tiny hearts and flowers doodled on the corners and was signed ‘the 666th division of Hellscouts x x x’. For another, it was demanding their presence as payment of the ransom and discussion of work which needed to be done.

This was precisely what happened every time Dean tried to do something nice. Apocalypse, murder, kidnap, all of it. One of these days he’d just give up and have toast for breakfast. Without jam.

Cas, to his credit, had stopped bleating about wanting more pancakes as soon as they’d stumbled across the crime scene and was now in what Dean liked to call ‘full Angel crime fighting mode’.

The edgy, uncomfortable vibe that seemed to hover about him whenever Crowley was in the general vicinity was just as present as always, however. Dean found it strangely comforting.

If Cas was on edge around Crowley, he could trust him to pick up quickly on anything particularly evil the demon was planning, at least. Plus it weirded him out when those two were civil to each other. One Angel gazing at the King of Hell with big puppy eyes was about the tipping point of how much celestial lovey shit he could take.

No, scratch that, Aziraphale’s painfully obvious crush _always_ made him want to vomit up his breakfast, no matter the circumstances – if Cas tried it, he might vomit up his own spleen.

“Ready?” the Angel said at last.

Dean nodded.

“Crowley’s just flown in. He’s outside. Are you okay?”

Dean’s gaze fell to the concerned hand that lay on his arm. No, he wasn’t okay. But Cas kind of already knew that and he wasn’t all that interested in discussing the particulars. Instead he opted for resting his own hand on top of his friend’s and nodding.

“I will be, if that jerk behaves himself. You tell him I ain’t in the mood for his shit right now.”

For a moment their eyes met, before falling back away to their respective shoes.

“I will. Come on, let’s go”

* * *

Of all of the top secret hideaway bunkers of long dead associations of demon hunters in the world, thought Crowley, I just had to walk into this one. He needed another Frappuccino already.

When he’d moseyed past on his little thieving mission the night before, he hadn’t really anticipated a return trip quite this soon. Come to think of it, he was sorely regretting turning off Netflix and flying over to swipe the damned diary in the first place. That thing was nothing but trouble and it didn’t even have the decency to be the right _kind_ of trouble.

When a hunter started unexpectedly seeing the future, it stood to reason that the prophecies would be important and speaking of great evil and apocalypse and all that jazz. Stuff that Crowley would have _needed_ to know about.

So far, he’d been forewarned of disasters relating to fried tomatoes, bar tabs and accidental angel bad-touching. Not exactly the stuff that great hell careers were made of.

Well, maybe the bad touching part. At a push.

But anyway, yes, a howling disappointment. Particularly since it had very quickly turned out that the prophecies hasn’t been written by Sam in the first place (unless of course he was writing them remotely by telepathy, which didn’t seem to be terribly likely. Plus, if Moose _was_ psychic, he presumably wouldn’t have done anything quite as silly as getting himself kidnapped by hellscouts in the first place)

Crowley hated Hell Scouts. For some insane reason, the 666th hailed him as their inspiration and their glorious leader, not that he intended to share that particular detail with anyone. Crowley had never led a Girl Scout troupe in his entire life and never intended to. Nor did he appreciate the boxes of cookies that kept turning up on his doorstep. Cookies were not exactly evil. They tended to give him the kind of sweet and sugary unbidden thoughts that made him have to go and torture someone afterwards to regain evil equilibrium and that was a kind of hassle that he just didn’t need in his life.

It didn’t do an undercover demon any good at all to have Fangirls racing after him in the street, for selfies or some such idiocy, either.

 

He’d asked around and apparently no one in hell had invented selfies _or_ Twitter. Bloody humans again, you just couldn’t leave them alone for five minutes without them inventing something as horrendous as Tweeting.

Or Facebook.

Or the Spanish Inquisition.

Or The Only Way is Essex.

Or Essex in general.

The best thing to do was to just clean this entire mess up, take revenge on whatever bastard thought it was funny to screw with the King of Hell’s breakfast, smite a few innocents for good measure and be back in Hell in time for the Eastenders Omnibus.

If he needed the Angel and the Squirrel to help, so be it.

If they were ever planning to come to the door, that was. He’d had time to construct a ten minute internal monologue, for Lucifer’s sake, how long did it take to open a door?

After about a million years, in which time Squirrel had probably had to apply his moisturiser and straighten his hair or something, the pair finally found their way out of the bunker to greet him. Not in a remotely please to see him way, naturally, more in a reluctant acknowledgement of his presence somewhat akin to one noticing a particularly unpleasant smell coming from under the floorboards.

He and Clarence exchanged nods, then he felt the angel’s gaze stray to the space directly behind Crowley’s left shoulder. Oh great, they were expecting _him_.

“Aziraphale’s busy.” Crowley snapped.

Squirrel and Clarence exchanged one of those glances that make Crowley want to bash their heads together even harder than usual.

“And I don’t know what he’s busy doing, so don’t ask me.”

Another look. “Crowley?”

“And I don’t care what he’s doing either.”

“Crowley.” Clarence was doing his awkward shuffle thing which had always annoyed him. Crowley pressed on, regardless.

“He could be highlighting his under feathers at the salon for all I give a damn. Pink, perhaps, I hear it’s this season’s-”

“ _Crowley_ ” Squirrel was beginning to look nearly as awkward as Clarence, which was an achievement.

“- _in thing_ for Angels who have nothing better to do, like hang out with their much better looking, funnier and more classy mates.”

There was an angry ruffle of probably-not-pink feathers from the not-so-empty space behind him.

“Hello Crowley.”

* * *

Aziraphale had regretted storming off almost as soon as he’d done it. Not quite as soon as he’d done it, unfortunately, as that might have afforded him the opportunity to ping straight back and hope that Crowley hadn’t even noticed his absence yet. No, his idiot feelings didn’t decide to sort themselves out until he had spent a good ten minutes prostrating himself on his living room floor in despair, wondering what on earth he was going to do.

He’s always known that it wasn’t, strictly speaking, the _best_ idea to carry on hanging around with Crowley after he’d fallen. But it was _Crowley._ He wasn’t like Lucifer and the others, even if he was a bit on the evil side. You couldn’t just stop seeing someone after centuries of friendship because you didn’t approve of their lifestyle choices any more.

Well, you could. In fact, the rest of heaven _had_ done and expected Aziraphale to do the same.

Though, they hadn’t actually said that. He had been supposed to figure it out for himself.

And he had, sort of.

No, that wasn’t quite true. He had _completely_ figured it out a long time ago, he had just chosen to pretend that he hadn’t. Because admitting that he knew he wasn’t supposed to see Crowley any more would mean _not_ seeing Crowley any more.

Aziraphale had disobeyed heaven and chosen to indulge himself instead. It wasn’t the sort of thing a good angel would do. Not a Hannah or a Uriel or a Michael.

It was the sort of thing that bloody _Castiel_ would do. Or rather _did._ Frequently.

Well, maybe if he could persuade Crowley to don a spot of check and khaki, anyway.

He ought to hand himself over to the archangels and tell them what he’d done before they found out for themselves. But then that would be it. Paper work and prayer work for the next hundred years until the other angels thought that they could let him out without keeping an eye on him.

No jam. No croissants and definitely no Crowley.

No, he wouldn’t go and tell heaven. He’d just have to be more careful in future. He’d just have to talk to Crowley – explain that today had been a bit… well, a bit on the naughty side. No more bill skipping, no fires and definitely no more drawing attention to themselves.

What he needed was a more mundane hobby or two. If heaven did happen to look down on them, they couldn’t exactly fault Aziraphale for watching a bit of television with the enemy, could they?

Maybe he should get Crowley a box set that wasn’t of Sex and the City. Just to be on the safe side.

No, he had a better idea. He would get Crowley a box set that _was_ Sex and the City - he'd get him the whole damn series. Then Crowley would have to stop sulking with him. Which he undoubtedly was. Crowley didn't like being ditched. He'd once managed to sulk with the Angel for half a decade. He'd still met him for breakfast of course, some occurrences were just part of the natural order of things - he'd just reminded the Angel at least once an hour that he was still angry with him and that Aziraphale ‘bloody well _knew_ why.’

He had actually sort of forgotten what those reasons were, if he were honest. Something about saving a soul that Crowley had Dibs on? Rasputin? Was that it? Either way, in the end neither of them had got their way when it turned out that they hadn't even been dealing with a human in the first place.

Crowley had still sulked, although Aziraphale secretly wondered if he was just a little bit embarrassed at not spotting one of his own undercover henchmen hiding out in Russia.

They'd kissed and made up in the end. Well, the second part, anyway. Demons didn't go in for kissing or so Aziraphale thought. Not that he _had_ given it any thought; kissing and Crowley were two entire separate issues with _very_ little in common. And by very little, he meant absolutely nothing at all and he _certainly_ only liked one of them and that wasn't Crowley because he was a demon and...

...it was complicated to say the least.

Aziraphale pushed all thoughts of kissing Crowley out of his mind and took a deep breath. He had to keep things simple:

1)      Do not, under any circumstances, tell heaven about this

2)      Behave better in future and,

3)      Go and apologise to Crowley.

How hard could that be? With any luck, the King of Hell would still be looking for some more breakfast and Aziraphale could simply join him.

Breakfast was a good thing. A million times better than any nasty demon hunts or whatever his little mortal friends were getting up to in their spare time these days.

With a flutter of wings, Aziraphale vanished.

* * *

Vamperellia Asquith Diamonda Hellina Sytherin, or ‘Judy’ as she was known to her mum, prided herself on being the best damn hell scout in Kansas. Not because she’d read Twilight over a dozen times or because she’d dyed her entire wardrobe black or even because she was left handed, but because Lucifer himself had told her so.

Not many hell scouts could say _that._ True, there were only seven hell scouts in existence as far as she knew, but had anyone told Yvette that _she_ was the evilest? Nope.

Not only had he given her the ‘evil deeds #1’ scout badge that morning for a job well done, he’d given her _this_. An actual evil lair. Vamperellia didn’t care that it strongly resembled an abandoned woodland cottage with floral wallpaper, if Lucifer himself said it was an evil lair then nobody had any right to argue. Plus it had an evil basement. Every evil lair needed an evil basement.

Lugging an unconscious man into the woods had been a little more difficult than anticipated, even with all seven of them, but now the kidnapping part was done she could sit back, have a cup of juice and just…

“ARGH!”

…scream loudly when their inglorious leader appeared about three inches from her nose.

(She’d been somewhat surprised the first time they’d met to find than the devil was the same height as her, but he’d assured her that both great and evil things came in small packages, which seemed fair enough)

“Morning Judy!” Lucifer cajoled, nudging her in the ribs. “How’s my favourite little evil doer? Kidnapping go well?”

She stiffened at the use of her given name but thought better of protesting. She didn’t want to be turned into a rat or something.

“It went perfectly, Sir. He’s in the basement as we speak.”

“Excellent stuff.” He picked up what she had been sure was an empty coffee cup moments earlier and took a long drag of what smelled suspiciously like hot chocolate. “And you remember the rest of the plan.”

She nodded. “How long are we to keep the other two locked in the cupboard, Sir?”

“As long as it takes, dear girl.” Lucifer sighed and summoned a generous topping of whipped cream. “As long as it takes.”

* * *


	6. Thursday 8:15am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6, in which there is mud wrestling.
> 
> No, really.

Aziraphale hadn't really thought about what reception he had been expecting when he made his not-quite-grovelling return, but diving straight into a Crowley monologue about how little he cared where the Angel was and what he was doing was not it.

He did his best to appear unaffected, adopting his characteristic stony expression that he often liked to use to inspire awe and fear and whatever into mortals, but the truth was, the words _hurt_. Why didn't Crowley care where he had gone? Crowley did not know for certain that his friend had flown away of his own accord. He could have been summoned. Or kidnapped. YES! He could have been _kidnapped_ and Crowley didn't even care.

All thought of apologising to Crowley fled from Aziraphale's mind. There was only one person here who was owed an apology and that was _him._ He, who could have been being tortured in hell by now, for all his so called friend cared.

"Hello Crowley."

The demon didn't look around. Instead, he continued pretending to be very interested in what Dean Winchester was saying. A remarkable feat when you considered that the hunter wasn’t actually saying anything at all at this precise moment.

Aziraphale didn't need to read his mind to know he was only pretending to be interested in these two. He didn't need to know what the conversation was even _about_ to know he was pretending.

Crowley never found anything the human had to say very interesting at all. Mildly amusing, perhaps, on a good day. As for Castiel, well…

The Angel’s wings ruffled in annoyance as he watched Crowley break into a laugh at something Castiel had said whilst the other Angel stared at him questioningly. Oh come _on_ \- if Crowley scarcely ever found Dean Winchester interesting, he _never_ in all the time and space and all the universes of all Creation found Castiel funny.

He was trying to wind Aziraphale up. It was working.

"I said Hello, Crowley."

"And anyway, as I was saying, then Moose says to me - hey, fellas, did you just hear something? Like a really annoying whiny sound coming from over -"

"I SAID HELLO. CROWLEY."

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, unconsciously clutching at Castiel's sleeve as he did. Despite his annoyance, Aziraphale spared enough of a reaction to raise an eyebrow. The other Angel hadn't moved to remove the hand, so he assumed he either hadn't noticed or didn't care. Both Angel and human were now looking at Crowley in a distinctly uncomfortable sort of way, motioning for him to glance over his shoulder. Crowley resolutely ignored them.

"There it is again, you know, it almost reminds me of someone."

"Crowley, if you don't stop ignoring me, I shall make you watch the _you know what_."

Crowley didn't respond but Aziraphale could see the tension creeping through him. He knew what the Angel meant. If anything, he was just trying to work out whether he would actually follow through on his threat.

"You know what I mean, Crowley. The one in Abu Dhabi."

It took about three seconds for Crowley to make his decision, don a sarcastic but passably polite smile and turn on his heel to acknowledge the Angel.

"Aziraphale. How nice to see you."

"Crowley." he turned to the others. "Castiel. Dean. I hope I'm not interrupting."

He was rather becoming suspicious that he was. The more he took in his surroundings the more he realised that he seemed to have walked right into the middle of one of those dreaded demon hunt thingies. That, or his three companions were taking their weapons on a picnic for some reason.

He really hoped it was the weapons picnic.

"Sam's been kidnapped." Dean said bluntly. "And whilst you're here, you can help."

Aziraphale suddenly wished he'd stuck with the original plan of going shopping for chick flicks on DVD. He hated hunting. He had never been terribly good at stealth. The idea of being an inspirational heavenly being was that you sort of _did_ make an impression on people when they saw you. Otherwise there wasn't an awful lot of point. If you blended in all the time, people might just ignore you completely and then not get enlightened at all and that would never do.

He was about to politely decline, when he saw that Crowley was grinning.

“You bet he can help. I have never known an Angel as talented at a stake out as Aziraphale here. Az, why don’t you tell Dean what the plan is?”

This, Aziraphale knew, was the beginning of Crowley’s revenge. The demon would mock, embarrass and annoy him for an hour or two and then all would be forgiven, or whatever the non-heavenly equivalent was. Oh well, it was easier than trying to apologise and it would be over faster if not any less painfully.

“I wouldn’t want to tread on Mr Winchester’s toes, Crowley. Let _him_ explain the plan.”

“But Angel, your heavenly wisdom will surely guide us on a safer path than letting the humans fumble their way through it.” Crowley’s tone was so saccharine it would probably have placed all nearby diabetics into a coma. Aziraphale squashed a few rather non-angelic thoughts about punching his friend in the face.

“There is only one human here, Crowley, and he is a professional, so let us let him talk.”

Out of sight, Dean slowly untangled his fingers from Castiel’s coat sleeve and cleared his throat.

“Well… uh… apparently the hell scouts have got a tree house or something in the woods, so I reckon we just go in, scare them a bit, get Sam and come back.”

Aziraphale made a great show of clapping his hands together. “Bravo! Bra – VO! That is a superb plan if I ever heard one. See, Crowley? Nothing to worry about, now let us get our things together. Shall I carry the flash light?”

Crowley scowled, then smiled a smile a hundred times more menacing. “But Angel, you can _make_ light, remember. You should take one of the guns.”

“I’ll take the torch.”

“The gun, Aziraphale.”

“Um…Crowley?”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale glanced over his companion’s shoulder at the two hastily retreating backs that were disappearing in the direction of the woods.

“I think they’ve left without us.”

* * *

There was something incredibly disheartening about being kidnapped by a bunch of teenage girls in uniform. It was almost allowable to get yourself captured by demons or vampires or werewolves or ghosts or, hell, even by Crowley. But by the hell scouts?

That’s what they were, apparently. The hell scouts. They had badges and scarfs and little hat things and considered themselves pretty bad ass. They weren’t. Sam was thoroughly embarrassed to have not already escaped and gotten them all grounded. Instead he found himself tied to a chair in the middle of what looked like a demonic granny’s sitting room twinned with an evil secret lair. At least, in the middle of what someone might think an evil secret lair looked like, if that someone was a 14 year old girl who had watched far too much television and read the wrong kind of books. The place was, for lack of a better word, kind of hilarious. The sort of lair that would feature on a Hell’s special of Extreme Makeover, Home Edition or something.

And don’t even get him _started_ on the ‘torture’ chamber. Implements of torture did not and had never in his book, involved fluffy pink handcuffs, the greatest hits of Justin Bieber or a feather duster. It was as if they’d learned the art of evil from Crowley or something. Or worse, the Archangel Gabriel after one too many peach schnapps.

He couldn’t really decide between the two. Perhaps the others could vote on it when they came to rescue him.

Assuming they _were_ coming to rescue him and hadn’t just dismissed the entire thing as a not very funny joke that Sam was playing on them, of course

He was sure that wasn’t the case, although they were certainly taking their time about the rescue.

They’d probably just decided to eat the rest of the pancakes first – he knew how dangerous it could be to embark on missions on an empty stomach, after all. That would be why they were late. They hadn’t left him at the mercy of the hell scouts.

He really hoped they’d hurry up.

He kind of needed to pee and he was getting really, really bored. With any luck the torture would start soon to take his mind off things.

"I suggest you talk, human"

Sam jumped as best he could, considering he was tied to a chair. “Gosh. You scared me.”

The hell scout didn’t seem to sense the sarcasm. On the contrary, her face split into a huge grin and she clapped her hands together in glee.

“Did I? Did I really?”

For a moment, Sam considered lying. But wiping that look off the face of someone who’d had the nerve to stun someone with black magic in their own kitchen was far too tempting.

“No.”

For a horrible second, her lip wobbled and Sam worried she was going to burst into tears on the spot. What could he say? Should he tell her he was sorry and he didn’t mean it? Tell her she was really, really evil and that Crowley would be proud (that last bit was probably true, come to think of it) For a moment a half apology formed on his lips but he swallowed it down. No, the last thing he needed was for Dean and Cas to burst in here to find a teenage girl sobbing on his lap.

Fortunately, the evil queen of whoever seemed to be managing to pull herself together, if the glowering and the foot stomping was anything to go by.

“You think you’re so clever, Winchester. But we will break you. You will tell us everything we want to know.”

It seemed pointless to argue. “Okay.”

“What?”

“I said ‘Okay’. What is it you want to know?”

She blinked at him a few times, as if confused by the question.

“I think I’m meant to torture you first.”

Sam shook his head. “Look, sweetie, trust me, I’m an expert. You have to ask the question before you start torturing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Really sure.”

The hell scout blinked as him through her blonde curls and pursed her lips in thought.

“I’ll be right back.”

And with that, she turned and bounded back up the stairs, leaving Sam calling after her in her wake.

“Hey! Hey? Do you think you could let me go to use the bathroom? HEY!”

* * *

The hunter’s plan, Crowley mused, was pretty simple as far as plans went. Especially the first bit. The first bit didn’t even really qualify as a plan. It was a simple matter of walking through a forest without making enough noise to bring a bunch a crazy teenaged witches down on you whilst you were trying to put together a rescue mission.

"OW! CROWLEY! THAT WAS MY FOOT!" Aziraphale howled, clutching at the offending limb. Crowley gave a shrug. Dean gave a stern glare. How in the world had he ended up with this lot as his back up? When Castiel was far and away doing the best job as a hunter of all of them, you knew something was badly wrong.

  
"If you two carry on making this much noise, those crazy witch scouts or whatever will _hear_ you and'll be gone by the time we get there." He growled, shouldering his weapons for the moment and glancing around. No sign of any crazy kids yet, which he assumed was a good thing.

  
Crowley pondered this for a moment. Then stepped very deliberately on Aziraphale's toes.

“OWWWWWWWWWW!”

The King of Hell mustered his very best look of confusion. “What?”

The Angel bristled at once: “What do you mean, ‘what’? You know what! That was my foot you trod on.”

“It was an accident.”

Aziraphale shot him a glare that Lucifer himself would have been proud of. “You’re STILL treading on my foot, Crowley.”

Crowley smirked. “It’s still an accident.”

This was his cue to shut up and take it, Aziraphale knew. His cue to be his usual angelic self and forgive Crowley his little deamony joke. To stand and smile and let his superior patience and virtue sustain him through their little spat until Crowley finally calmed down. It was, in short, Aziraphale’s cue to prove that no matter how demonic, how aggravating, how uttery _Crowley-ish_ his friend was, his badness did not rub off on the angel one little bit.

It was definitely _not_ his cue to push Crowley over, straight into a muddy puddle.

Oh, but it felt very, very good.

For once in his very long life, Crowley was completely lost for words. Once the initial shock of finding himself soggy, muddy and staring up at a smirking Angel who shouldn’t even be able to _think_ about doing such things wore off, Crowley began to plot his revenge. Plot it quickly, mind you – no one wants to sit in a puddle for any longer than they have to. In fact, the urgency was probably most of the reason for the stunning lack of originality in his response.

Aziraphale should never have offered his hand to Crowley. It was kind, considerate and very, very foolish.

As he probably realised for himself when his face met the mud with a resounding SPLAT.

Crowley savoured his victory for a moment. Sure, the angel had taken him by surprise with his little trick, but surely he knew you couldn’t outwit the Lord of Hell for long. Az just needed reminding of that sometimes. A short, sharp reminder that would make sure he didn’t try anything like that again for years.

For decades.

Millennia

Eons, or whatever came after that.

Anyway, just making sure the Angel thought twice before doing anything that could possibly be construed as…

The second batch of freezing mud hit him squarely on the jaw.

Right, that was _it._

“You’ve really done it now, Angel.”

Crowley flung out an arm to retaliate but it simply flew through the air, knocking him off balance when the contact he knew should have been there was absent. Aziraphale had flown. The bastard.

“Squirrel! Clarence! Need some help over here.” With a squelch, Crowley tried to make his way back to his feet. “Squirrel?”

But there was no sign of the Hunter or his Angel. Apparently they had very little patience when it came to issues like rescue missions being held up by an angel and a…well, fallen and muddy angel deciding to have an impromptu mud wrestling session in the middle of a forest. And now said Angel was gone too.

Flexing his fingers, Crowley stripped the wet and dirt from his trousers and grimaced. Maybe he shouldn’t have been winding Az up quite so mercilessly as usual.

But that was the thing – he hadn’t been being any worse than usual. He’d wound Az up a hundred thousand times and the Angel has never snapped back at him before.

Crowley decided that he didn’t like Aziraphale snapping back at him very much at all. So much so that he might even consider apologising next time he saw him. Not actually apologise, mind you, just think about it a bit.

He’d give it a try when Aziraphale came back.

He looked around expectantly and the empty wood mocked him straight back.

Right. Great.

Might as well follow those other two bone heads then.

And with that, Crowley set off after Dean and Castiel in a very, _very_ bad mood.

* * *

The more Dean hung around with Aziraphale and Crowley, the more he decided that he had definitely got the better deal when they were handing out angels. Or angels were choosing humans. Whichever. Whilst those two idiots were busy mud wrestling for _absolutely no freaking reason_ back in the woods, his own Angel was actually being _useful -_ stood at his shoulder, covering him whilst he checked the perimeter.

To be frank, the defences of the hell scouts cottage thingy didn’t look particularly impressive or well-guarded. Or guarded at all for that matter. He fancied that he could just stroll up to the front door and ask for his brother back and none of this lot would be able to do anything about it. Cas had already flown over to spy in the only uncovered window and reported back that, as suspected, it really was just a group of teenage girls with nothing better to do.

“Do we have a plan?”

Dean shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. “I don’t know, man. Are they actually, you know, just normal humans? Not any kind of…special?”

Castiel shook his head. “I did not sense anything unusual in there. But Dean…”

“What?”

The Angel stammered, then fell silent and Dean felt his stomach tie in knots. Nothing good ever seemed to come of Cas not wanting to tell him something. He exhaled slowly, trying not to let his impatience show. “Cas, hey, come on. Tell me.”

“It’s Sam. I should have mentioned it earlier but I thought I was mistaken. I think… I think there’s some kind of magic on him.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You mean like a spell? You think those kids are witches or something?”

The Angel shook his head. “No. It isn’t that kind of magic. Dean… I…”

“You…what?”

“I need to know. Have you invited another angel into the bunker? Besides me, I mean.”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting _that_. He especially hadn’t expected the hurt in Cas’s words when he’d asked the question.

“No, Cas. Come on. You know you’re the only one out of the whole of heaven I can stand, right?” He grinned in the vain hope of raising a smile. Cas’s lips didn’t move. “Hey, what’s the deal? You sniff out some kind of Angel scent or something?”

It had been intended as a joke, but when Cas’s eyes rose slowly to meet his own, his heart sank a little further. “No way, you guys can do that?”

Cas nodded, then shook his head. Then nodded again.

“I… no… what we can feel is… traces. Traces that one of our brethren has been…interfering.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Woah woah woah. What? Interfering with my brother?”

“It would explain who left the messages in the kitchen?”

It took Dean’s brain a few moments to click into gear. “Wait, what? You think Sammy wrote those prophecies and shit? Why wouldn’t he just tell us the messages himself?”

“I don’t think he has any memory of doing it, Dean. But I wish I knew why an Angel would do such a thing.”

Dean finally loosened his grip on his hunting knife and let out the breath he hadn’t even realised that he’d been holding.

“Well, you’re not exactly Mr Popular up there right now, are you? Maybe whoever it is would just feel better not…running into you. You know.”

“I see.”

The horrible realisation of guilt slunk its way between Dean’s ribs and squeezed. “No, Cas, that’s not what I said, Okay?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You _thought_ it. I know you did. I wasn’t blaming you, I know that-“

“You’re probably right.”

Dean sighed, running his free hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, if some Angel wants to be a total dick wad and act like a drama queen, let ‘em. It’s their problem if they can’t just knock on the front door or something.”

“Perhaps if I wasn’t –“

“You’re going nowhere, Cas, we’ve been through this, remember?”

Cas remembered. He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on Dean’s lips as if fearful of what would come out next.

“Besides, if having you in the bunker keeps that bunch of dicks away, then that’s just even more reason you should stay.”

Cas managed a proper smile at that one. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed tight.

“So now we’ve got work to do even after we rescue Sammy, huh?”

“Yes. Yes we do.”

* * *

Aziraphale had gone off in his second strop of the day.

He wasn’t exactly proud of it. Angels were not really supposed to throw strops. Angels were supposed to be kind and patient and endlessly forgiving.

And Angels really, really weren’t supposed to have friends like Crowley.

He couldn’t help it, there was something about that… something about that _man_ for lack of a better word that just pushed all his buttons and then kept pushing them until he did something stupid or reckless or both. He wondered if Crowley had this effect on most people. It seemed fairly likely that he did. That was not really the problem though. Crowley was a lord of hell – he was supposed to be a corruptive influence. He just wasn’t supposed to corrupt _him_.

He’d been stupid to push Crowley in the mud, he knew that. His friend would have finished most of his sulking by the end of the day had he just left him be and ignored him for a bit longer. Maybe even earlier if they’d rescued the Winchester boy and got to the bottom of this awful prophecy problem. Crowley liked winning at things and being proved right over people he didn’t like much counted as ‘winning’ in spades.

It was going to take more than winning to cheer Crowley up now.

Perhaps if he… yes. That was it. Perhaps if he engineered another win for Crowley, he might be more in a mood to forgive Aziraphale. Perhaps.

It had to be worth a try, didn’t it?

But what kind of win? It would have to be something that made Crowley look the hero and Aziraphale the idiot but he could deal with that. Just so long as Crowley didn’t crow about it for too long.

Hey…

If _he_ got kidnapped by hell scouts too, then Crowley would _have_ to come and rescue him, wouldn’t he? If only so he could take the piss out of Aziraphale for ever more for it. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

If there was one thing guaranteed to put Crowley in a good mood, it was having the excuse to laugh at his friends.

Right, it was a plan then.

Now, how did one go about getting kidnapped by teenage fan girls?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure that people not leaving comments won't be eaten by rabid hell scouts, but Crowley thinks you should leave one anyway, just to be on the safe side.


	7. Thursday 10am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this one, everyone. This Chapter gave me so much bloody hassle. Damn those Hell Scouts...

****

After a torturously long break, during which Sam’s best efforts not to think about his bladder were repeatedly thwarted by the sound of every tap in the cottage being turned on simultaneously (oh boy did he wish he had never implied that those girls didn’t know how to torture somebody) two of the Hell Scouts finally turned up to interrogate him.

Well, he assumed that was why they’d come. He’d probably only know for certain once they stopped giggling enough to actually tell him. Still, he’d take giggling over torturing any day. Giggling teenagers he just about remembered how to handle. He forced a smile so wide he thought his face might crack and mentally prepped himself for battle.

"Hey there, great to see you girls again. I must say, that whole evil thing really suits you."

The first girl giggled and turned a shade of pink that really did not match with the blood red scarf she was wearing. Bingo. “Really?” she squeaked. Her companion elbowed her sharply in the ribs.

“Really really.” He pressed on, holding eye contact as best he could. “Sublimely wicked, truly terrifying.”

She giggled again, turning a shade not dissimilar to third degree sunburn. “That’s so cool. I just wanted to say that – OW!” she clutched at the spot where her companion’s elbow had just landed its second strike and adopted an aggrieved expression. “What was that for?”

“No talking to the hostage.” The other girl snapped. Sam vaguely recognised her as the spellcaster. He made a mental note to ensure he got her grounded for longest, later. It wasn’t usually too hard, most parents weren’t too happy to learn that their offspring had been running amok and torturing people– at least usually not. Judging by how badly his morning was going, it would be just his luck that the parents were evil too. Hey, maybe their parents were Abaddon and Lucifer and he was really in trouble. On balance, however, probably not.

“Do you know what this is, dear Moosey Moose?” The second girl brandished what looked like a feather duster under his nose. “Go on, take a guess.”

Sam wrinkled his nose and sneezed loudly.

The Hell Scout rolled her eyes in disgust. “Ew.”

Sam fervently hoped that the neither of his captors had seen one of his eyebrows migrate about three inches higher on hearing that comment.  Pissed off and affronted Hell Scouts were undoubtedly ten times worse that the regular variety and the regular variety was quite enough insipid awfulness for one morning, thank you very much. How the hell had he ended up in this mess?

“This is a weapon of abominable torture.” the second scout sighed out loud. “As you will find out, unless you answer me one simple question. Refuse and the suffering will be nigh on legendary.”

Whatever they wanted, Sam presumed, was going to be pretty damn hellish. How to unlock Luci’s cage, perhaps? How to summon the four horseman and accompanying Hell’s Angels of the apocalypse? How to bake narcotic cookies so they didn’t leave a stain in the oven afterwards?

“Tell me, Moosie-Moo, and tell me truthfully.” a sharp jab from the feather duster punctuated her request, “What does a hunter look for in an Angel boyfriend?”

* * *

If Crowley had been the star of his own romantic comedy (as, in his own mind, he often was) the stroll through the rest of the forest would probably have taken place to an obnoxiously upbeat number, belted out by Taylor Swift whilst a troupe of screechy scorned women shouted out angry backing vocals. For Crowley was a man on a mission and that mission did not in any way involve a certain crumpet-munching, tea-stealing wanker of an angel who just didn’t appreciate Crowley for the denizen of corruption that anyone with an ounce of corruption in their heart loved just the way he was.

Angels. What the bloody hell was wrong with Angels? Aside from everything, ever.

No one, not even a slightly endearing featherbrain whose company was just about tolerable on occasion, was going to make the King of Hell feel like anything less that the damn fine demon that he’d always known he was. No one.

He felt great. And he certainly didn’t feel like wandering off and having a good old sulk in the bushes with a couple of packets of Kleenex and a copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Damn that Angel.

To make things worse, Clarence and Squirrel had skipped off hand in hand (or whatever it was they did these days) to go and rescue Moose by themselves. Well, that was just fine – if no one wanted Crowley around then that was their problem. Some demons had better things to do with their lives that eat patisserie and run scouting expeditions.

He wasn’t choosing to _do_ any of the numerous more interesting things that he could be doing right then, mind you. But that was because of reasons. And stuff. _Evil_ reasons and stuff. If the Angel got himself tied to a tree and held captive by marauding Hell Scouts in his absence it was just too bad.

In fact, Crowley decided, it was exactly what the tosspot deserved.

With a sigh, he quickened his pace. “Oi! Squirrel! Wait up!”

* * *

Coincidentally, at that very moment in time, Aziraphale was busy tying himself to tree.

It was, if he did say so himself, a rather bloody good plan. Crowley would never suspect that anyone would ever do something as silly as tie themselves to a tree. It was absolutely fool proof.

He gave his bonds an experimental tug and cleared his throat: "Oh no! I appear to be trapped! Oh no!"

Aziraphale wasn't used to being a damsel in distress. As a heavenly being with the power to smite just about any malign force that tried to have its wicked way, helplessness just didn't suit him. It was like giving an AK - 47 to a My Little Pony - there was just something so inherently contradictory about the whole thing that anyone setting eyes on it would just stop, scratch their head and go on their way, if they had any sense.

Aziraphale felt fairly safe in the knowledge that the Hell Scouts did not have much more than an ounce of common sense between them. Plus they liked kidnapping people, so he shouldn't have to keep this up for too long. At least he hoped not - his wings were getting cramp from all this flailing.

Having usually been on the ‘rescuer’ end of rescuing, the Angel did admittedly have a very sketchy idea of how to work the actually getting kidnapped bit. He had eventually reasoned that in those awful films Crowley made him watch sometimes, the Prince usually found the poor hostage tied to a tree and screaming for help and so he had done his very best to oblige tradition. Kissing often ensued afterwards but he was sure they could navigate that part perfectly well when the time came. For now, he patiently waited.

And waited.

Unfortunately, hostages tied to trees tend to have a funny effect on any would be kidnappers who just so happened to be walking by; much like a giant pile of gold bullion lying around in the street might deter any would-be robber. There was something just a little too easy about just popping along and kidnapping someone who had already been tied to a tree. Plus, you didn’t want to go upsetting any other kidnappers who just so happened to be passing through the area and stealing someone’s hostage was usually a very, very good way to make them very, very upset.

After about ten minutes of not getting kidnapped, Aziraphale’s pride finally got the better of him.

Getting kidnapped wasn’t really fitting for a heavenly being, though Castiel seemed to manage it often enough. No, heroics were the thing for him from now on. Heroics and gratitude and terribly brave deeds – it was simple, he’d just have to rescue Sam himself and force Crowley to see what a rather wonderful hero he really was.

According to tradition, Sam might have to make out with him afterwards, but he was sure they could cross that bridge when they came to it.

Untying himself from the tree turned out to be slightly more difficult than expected but soon he was back on his feet, stalking toward the bungalow in the distance . Hero Aziraphale? It was a piece of Fortnum and Mason’s finest cake.

 * * *

Of all the questions Sam might have been expecting from the culmination of the weirdest sequence of events he’d ever experienced before breakfast, that one hadn’t been one of them.

“Tell us,” the feather duster wielder warned, “or something very bad will happen.”

Sam stared at them both in silence, bracing himself for the inevitable pain that would surely follow.

Nothing happened.

After a rather long and anticlimactic moment, nothing continued to happen.

The Inquisitor began to shuffle awkwardly in her black, sparkly Converse All Stars. “We’ll give you a minute to think about it.” she conceded eventually. “Two minutes, if you like.”

Sam continued to stare at her with his mouth slightly agape.

“Listen. I’m not being funny here, but are you sure it’s me you want? You know, not my brother? Not Crowley?”

"Crowley?" one of the Scouts emitted a squeal so loud and high-pitched it might have been audible to a Chihuahua five miles away. "Crowley? Crowley? You know him? What is he like? Tell me, I want to know everything. He's my favourite demon, see and-"

"Be quiet, Mirabelle." The first girl hissed. "Crowley isn't the one who hired us, okay? Don't forget who it is we're here for. What we've been promised."

“But it’s Crowley! You know I love Crowley. You’re just jealous because I have his new album and…”

Despite more pressing matters at hand, Sam made a mental note to ask Crowley what the hell that was all about when he finally got out of here. New album? What the actual…

He wondered briefly what the hell kind of crazy demon hired their own teenage fan girls to do their bidding in the first place? What _was_ their bidding, anyway? So far they'd _talked_ about torturing him but not actually done anything and then decided they didn't know what they were questioning him _for_ anyway and…well…they would just have to wait because he really, really needed to pee.

"Look, girls. I will tell you all about Crowley. I will even get you his autograph. Just tell me where the bathroom is. Please."

"If you think we're stupid enough to fall for that one..."

"I'll take him." Another girl appeared at the door. "If he thinks about escaping, I’ll know. You know. With my powers."

Wait, what? One of the hell scouts was actually a clairvoyant? Now that was unexpected to say the least. Spotting his best chance of actually reaching the damned bathroom with his life and various parts intact, Sam turned to smile at the new girl.

"Hey yourself." she replied to nothing in particular.

Sam blinked, wondering for a moment if he’d missed a crucial part of the conversation.

"Hey you?" he tried eventually.

"It's because I can see the future."

“How did you know what I was going to say?"

“Not lottery numbers, usually.”

The hunter stared at her, baffled.

The new girl stared back, expectantly. "Oh, come on. You have to ask the question. If you don't ask the question when I've already foreseen it it gives me the most awful headache. Oh, and for your next question - Okay"

This really was far too much for anyone to handle before their second cup of coffee.

"Right, okay. Um… ‘can you foresee everything?’ and er…’can you take me to the bathroom now?’ And maybe stop doing that thing where you answer me before I've asked the question. Because that's a little bit freaky, you know."

She smiled and reached to untie him, obviously making a concerted effort not to say anything further. Sam wondered if she knew what he was thinking. No, worse, he wondered if she knew what he would be thinking in a couple of minutes.

Hopefully he'd be thinking how relieved he was that his brother and his most definitely non-boyfriend Angel had already staged the rescue mission by the time he got back from the bathroom.

Though theoretically, if she foresaw such thoughts and thwarted the rescue, then he wouldn’t be able to think those thoughts in the first place, which was a little paradoxical. More than that, it was headache inducing.

And before his brain could explode any further, Sam stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Dean didn’t often concern himself with other people’s relationships. Hell, Dean didn’t often concern himself with relationships at all. Generally, when you lived the kind of lifestyle that he and Sam did, someone really had to want to hang around with you in the first place to bother coming back more than twice and if they liked you enough to do that, they probably weren’t all that bothered about whether you got in all your niceties whenever you spoke to them.

Besides, he assumed that other people’s relationships didn’t involve such complex issues as apocalypses on a regular basis, so it was quite difficult to relate.

Right now, though, he was painfully aware of one thing – he really, really needed to get Aziraphale and Crowley to kiss and make up, for his own sanity rather than anyone else’s. The demon had finally caught up with he and Cas on the outskirts of the clearing and it had been immediately obvious from his expression that they were not going to get any rescuing done any time soon.

When Crowley had something on his chest, he liked to complain about it – a lot. Apparently he especially liked to complain about his Angel. At length. With accompanying monologues.

“And he _pushed_ me. I mean, he actually pushed me over! In the mud. And then he vanished. Didn’t even say he was sorry. He can forget it if he thinks I’m going to let that one slide. After all I’ve done for him.”

“What?” Dean sighed, wondering why on earth he was encouraging him. Ah yes, because he was holding onto the forlorn hope that if Crowley talked over his anger enough he might actually calm down and forgive his friend. The sooner he did, the sooner he might stop trying to invite Dean and Cas over for a marathon of Gossip Girl and some fajitas.

“I said ‘after all I’ve done for him’”

“No, I heard, I meant what _have_ you done for him?”

Crowley stopped and thought about this for a moment. His mind was struggling to come up with a decent example right then but he was comfortably certain that there were thousands. He was the best friend Aziraphale could ever have wished for, always doing selfless friendshippy things like… well, like the things he was sure he did but couldn’t think of right now.

“That.” He puffed himself up in an attempt to put a firm end to the hunter’s line of questioning, “is none of your business.”

“Dean.”

He didn’t miss the affronted look that Crowley gave as he turned to give his full attention to the Angel. Nor the muttered curses, nor the sound of a nearby tree root receiving a swift kick for the crime of being vaguely within range of the King of Hell’s foot. He chose to ignore them.

“You see something?”

The Angel shook his head, biting his lip in an unconscious mimic of his friend. “I heard something. Wings.”

Something in his expression twisted at Dean’s insides and he knew that he didn’t mean Aziraphale. Instinctively, he reached out to squeeze Cas’s arm, trying to calm the sudden flicker of anxiety that ran through him.

“Who?”

The Angel shook his head. “I don’t know. But they were big, and they were very close.”

“Big? Cas… you think there’s an archangel out here?”

Fear’s cold hands clutched at his chest as his mind turned this new information over and over. Wings didn’t necessarily mean an angel but the look on Cas’s face had left him in no doubt that the Angel was worried. No, not ‘worried’, he was genuinely shaken by whatever he’d heard out there and that was what made Dean’s insides turn to ice. Cas didn’t say anything, didn’t nod or shake his head, didn’t do _anything_ to confirm or deny what he’d asked but that what enough.

He didn’t want to ask the next question.

“Michael?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. We would know if it were Michael.”

Dean might have missed the fact that Cas had taken a step to put himself between the human and the source of the sound, but Crowley didn’t. Nor did he miss the sudden clench of the Angel’s fingers around the human’s wrist.

Bloody hell. If the Angel was preparing to fly out of there, Crowley was going to end up completing this whole damn rescue by himself. He cleared his throat in exasperation.

“Clarence, if Michael wanted his little Tupperware Box, he isn’t going to be put off by you.” He shrugged, moving to inspect his nails as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. “It wasn’t him. I’d know _that_ noise anywhere.”

The tension in Castiel’s shoulders eased a miniscule amount. He didn’t make any reply, which Crowley, as was usual, took as an invitation to carry on filling the silence.

“And you know our brother, he’s so damn miserable that we’d be able to pick up on it from here. Even the trees would be depressed. No, I think we’re quite safe. From Michael at least.”

Dean decided there and then that he’d rather not think about whoever else he might NOT be quite safe from. Whatever had been out there, if Cas _had_ heard wings, was gone now and if they got in there, rescued Sam and got the hell out they might stand a chance of being long gone by the time whatever it was came back. Either way, there was no time to stand around discussing the issue any further. Not least because Cas was going to break his damned arm if he held on any tighter

A piercing sound ripped through the silence of the forest.

"Did you hear that?"

  
"The blood curdling screams, coming from the ominous looking basement over there?" Crowley shot a wary glance in the direction of the front door.

  
"Yes."

  
"No."

* * *

“Right, now you’re back, we need to get on with the interrogation.” The psychic girl happily informed the younger hunter, tying the knots back into the chair arms. “Okay, I’m going to ask you some more questions, then if you don’t answer them, I’ll torture you. Understand?”

Sam wondered why on earth a psychic would think that he needed the concept of interrogation and torture explained to him, but nodded anyway. “Okay. Fine.”

“Okay. Right. So, first question.”

Sam waited, wondering how many times he’d bother to mess with her before just refusing to speak at all. A few, probably. He wouldn’t want to disappoint her too much when she’d gone to all the effort of being nice to him and all.

“What do you find most attractive in an angel?”

Okay, so choking on nothing and turning red in the face probably wasn’t the best way to act like a stone hearted hard ass, but seriously, _what?_

“Dude. I er… once again… are you sure you’ve got the right brother here?”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Samuel. Why on earth, why in all the realms of heaven and hell would I need to _ask_ your brother what he finds attractive in angels?”

Psychic or not, she certainly had a point there. Maybe she really could see into the future.

“Look, I’m not answering that. That’s dumb. I don’t go around chatting up Angels.”

“I suggest you tell me.”

“No freaking way”

“Talk!”

  
"Or what?" Sam scoffed "you'll predict the future at me?" Magical she may have been, but he sincerely doubted that she'd picked up her 'Spanish Inquisition' badge at Hell Scouts yet. Let her try to break him. It should be pretty amusing of nothing else.

  
The psychic smirked, as if something very amusing had just occurred to her. "Yes." She replied simply.

  
"Fine. Do your wors-"

  
"TYRION DIES, BITCH!"

* * *

Aziraphale was starting to get very, very frustrated.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to infiltrate a secret lair by getting ‘captured’. Heck, any proper kidnapping outfit would have bundled him into the basement and tried to rip his wings off by now. He’d tried skulking around the hideout in a suspicious manner, he’d tried getting himself caught peering in the windows and now he’d even had a go at hiding behind a tree and ‘accidentally’ getting noticed by the border patrol guards.

The patrol guards hadn’t even looked up from their iPhones for long enough to notice him. Not even when he’d bewitched the blocks on Candy Crush to spell out “he’s behind you, doofus.”

Aziraphale hated it when a plan didn’t come together.

At this rate, Dean and Castiel were going to have completed the bloody rescue and those girls were going to be far too busy being grounded to help him with his own little mission. He needed a Plan B, and quickly.

Or a C or a D, he really wasn’t fussy about these things.

With a long sigh, the Angel sauntered up the garden path and pressed his thumb down on the hideout door bell. He could make something up once they answered, he was sure.

It seemed to take an age for someone to finally respond. Undoubtedly the little hellions were painting their toenails or some other insipid act of casual heresy. Well, they could at least answer the door. It was bad manners just to leave someone stood there. Especially an Angel.

Later, Aziraphale would tell the others exactly what he remembered from the little incident that happened next. That the door had opened and the Hell Scouts had got the jump on him. Some dark magic no doubt. The next thing he knew he was waking up inside with no idea how he’d got there in the first place.

Had Sam been present for this discussion, he might have remembered from a long-ago CSI and Law and Order marathon that 8 out of 10 eye witness statements are completely unreliable.

The door creaked open, just enough to entice the Angel to step a little closer and meet the eyes of his soon-to-be-host.

A pair of smirking eyes, the colour of Verve Cliquot on a sunny day.

It was the Angel’s stunned surprise that proved his downfall.  
  
“What on all of heaven and Earth are _you_ doing here?”

Then there were two fingers of his forehead and a warm light.

Aziraphale fell fast asleep into his captor’s arms.

 


	8. Thursday 10:30am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, dear readers, for all the lovely reviews and Kudos. They kept me all cheered up whilst I had the 'flu this week. Speaking of - I wrote some of this with a temperature of 101 degrees, so I apologise in advance for it being even crackier than usual. Toodle pip!

** Chapter 8 **

It was supposed to be a perk of being an Angel that you were immune from most of the little irritations of being human. Coughs, colds, broken bones, headaches, cold cups of tea, headaches, people who wear socks in bed, headaches, Daily Mail readers, Piers Morgan and headaches were all things that Aziraphale had smugly considered beneath him until what would later become known as ‘that Thursday morning we don’t talk about’.

Aziraphale’s head was pounding so hard he would have said a thousand elephants were tap dancing on it, if he were the sort who went in for hyperbolic metaphors. That was the first horribly wrong thing about the whole situation – Angels didn’t get headaches. Angels certainly didn’t get the kind of headache that made their throat hoarse and their mouth taste of cotton wool. The fact that he was in discomfort at all told him that whatever he’d had an uncomfortable encounter with wasn’t human. But if it was something powerful enough to do this to him, where was it now? More to the point, where was _he_?

And what was that weird hissing noise he kept hearing?

“Az! Psst! Az!”

Even the quiet sound of the whisper sent ripples of pain through his temple. How on earth did humans deal with headaches? More to the point, why did they ever drink alcohol if these were the consequences? Perhaps Crowley had been right about humans all along. Clearly they secretly enjoyed a bit of pain and suffering – they would never dedicate so much time and effort to the pursuit of it otherwise.

“Az! Aziraphale! Wake up!”

The horrible, sour taste in his mouth intensified. Was this nausea? Either way, it was utterly horrid. He wished whoever it was would just shut up and let him go back to sleep. Wait, sleep?

Angels didn’t need to sleep!

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open in panic. Where on earth was he? _Was_ he on earth? Why was he tied to a chair? What was going on?

“Aziraphale!”

His head snapped to the side and the familiar visage of Sam Winchester swam into view.

It was probably an indicator of quite how desperate the situation seemed that he was really very pleased indeed to see him.  Plus, his presence meant that somehow, against all logic, his plan had been successful. He didn’t have a clue how he had managed it, but he was clearly very kidnapped.

For a moment, he felt very pleased with himself indeed. He’d show Crowley who was _useless_.

Well, actually he wouldn’t. He’d be fooling Crowley into thinking he _was_ useless in order to win his forgiveness but he wouldn’t _really_ be being useless. He’d know that, at least.

And maybe he could tell Dean and Sam and Cas afterwards. Just so they wouldn’t think badly of him.

“Az, what the hell is going on?”

The Angel flinched at the expletive and the action sent a jolt of pain straight through him. “Ow. Well. The thing is Sam, I don’t really know. I was on my way to rescue you and…”

“Wait, _you_ were on your way to rescue me? Why?” Sam’s brows knitted into a frown.

“Long story. Crowley and I popped by the bunker, you see...”

“ _Crowley’s_ here too?”

“Yes. Well, no. I don’t know where he’s gone, actually. But anyway, when we got to the bunker, your brother and his little seraph friend were getting ready to come and rescue you…”

“They were?” Sam’s expression turned quickly to concern. “Az, what happened? Were they with you?”

“Well, no…” he scrunched his nose in confusion. Why on earth was he spilling his guts to Sam about all of this? The boy would undoubtedly run and tell the others and it was supposed to be a secret. At least, it had been. Would be. Probably.

Sam’s worried expression awoke an acute ache of guilt inside the angel. Perhaps he has better at least try to explain himself. “They ditched us, actually. Crowley and I. I think we were irritating them a little. I don’t know where they are, either.”

Now that bit he definitely hadn’t originally meant to come straight out with. Ditched by Castiel and Dean in the middle of a rescue mission? Those two should have been thanking their lucky stars that they had Crowley and Aziraphale on their side, not deciding out of the blue that they were far too cool to hang out with them anymore. It had hurt his feelings more than he really cared to admit.

Sam, to his credit, didn’t say whatever he obviously wanted to, though he couldn’t suppress the arched eyebrow and small smirk that played about his lips. Poor Aziraphale. Something about him made Sam appreciate Castiel so very much more than usual.

“Well…” he wondered what he could say to comfort the Angel and finally settled on a slightly limp  “I’m sure they’ll all be along to rescue us soon. No need to worry.”

_He_ was the one who should be worried. He was the one stuck in a locked room with an Angel who liked to discuss the works of the Brontë sisters at length. Especially ‘Wuthering Heights’, of all things.

Sum hated Wuthering heights. After too long in the Angel’s company on a previous occasion, he’d learned to hate Villette too. A feat, considering he had neither read nor heard of the bloody thing until that evening.

It wouldn’t come to that this time, he hoped. Dean and Cas would be along soon enough. It wouldn’t take them long to deal with a troupe of teenage wannabe-satanists, he was sure. Even if said teenagers had somehow managed to incapacitate a fully-fledged Angel without enough of a struggle to even raise the alarm.

Perhaps it would be best to just take a leaf out of Aziraphale’s book and go to sleep until it was all over.

“You know Sam, whilst we’re down here, it would be great to get your thoughts on Anna Karenina.”

Sam closed his eyes and prayed for rescue.

* * *

In the five seconds the indistinct scream had lasted, Dean had already made it half way to the front door, gun in hand and an Angel on his tail. Twenty paces behind them, Crowley followed at a sedentary pace. Running directly toward the sound of screaming was never something that had particularly appealed to him. Give the situation a minute or two and you might had a somewhat quieter problem to deal with.

Better than that, someone might have dealt with it for you. Crowley liked to think of it as ‘outsourcing’.

A swift kick dealt with the door and a burst of light from Castiel lit up the darkened room. It looked empty enough but Dean made sure to give it a good sweep regardless. No Hell Scouts. No one at all. An ominous looking trapdoor lay in the middle of the room.

“Dean, do you want me to-“

Dean shook his head. “We need to check the rest of this floor first. They could still be here.”

Castiel nodded and crept toward the far doorway. Dean wasn’t surprised that there was no one there, he’d always got the impression that the Angel could sense that sort of thing. The pretending to look was something he had only really started doing since he’d been hunting with Dean and Sam. He wondered if he knew he was doing it at all.

“There is no one here. Shall we go down?”

Dean bit his lip and nodded. “I’ll go first.”

Cas frowned but said nothing as Dean swung open the trap door, revealing a reassuringly sturdy looking ladder and an awful lot of ominous looking pitch-darkness.

It shouldn’t have been any great surprise when the trapdoor, quite of its own accord, snapped shut after them.

* * *

“You know what, Az?” Sam asked finally, once he was well and truly ready to emulate Aziraphale’s favourite protagonist and jump under the nearest train, “What I don’t understand is why you haven’t just zapped out of here yet. I’ve seen Cas do it loads of times. There aren’t any wards up or anything.”

Aziraphale mumbled something about strategic angel reasons and Sam not understanding. The hunter raised an eyebrow.

“You know, you could just whoosh out of those ropes, untie me and whoosh us both out.”

Aziraphale mumbled again.

“Oh come on, Az. Don’t just say you can’t. At least give me a proper reason.”

The Angel stiffened, shooting Sam a look that reminded him of a former Maths teacher and didn’t improve his mood one jot.

“It’s Angel business. Secret Angel business. Stop asking questions.”

“Why do I need to stop asking questions?” Sam frowned in confusion. Aziraphale hadn’t exactly held back in asking _him_ a million and one questions about Russian Literature. What was the problem now?

"Do you know what happens to people who ask too many questions? Hmm?" Aziraphale narrowed his eyes in what he dimly hoped was a threatening manner. He'd seen Crowley do it a lot, after all, and he _was_ a Lord of Hell. A Lord of Hell who enjoyed Lambrini, mud baths and Sex and the City, granted, but a Lord of Hell nonetheless.

Sam pondered the question for a moment, then shrugged. "No. What does happen to them?"

"Dunno." Aziraphale admitted. "They probably get answers. Serves them right."

That seemed fair enough to Sam.

“Right then, time for plan B.”                              

With a deep breath, the hunter threw back his head and screamed for help.

 

* * *

By the Crowley had strolled up to the hide out, gone into the kitchen, made himself a cup of tea and found himself a comfy spot to sit and wait on the sofa, he calculated it was more or less time for Squirrel and Clarence to be finishing up the rescue.

Good, they’d be along in a minute and then they could sit down with Sam and get down to the bottom of whoever had been leaving apocalyptic, weird and downright intrusive prophecies lying about. Crowley regretted ever getting involved in the bloody thing. Well, he did now that it seemed so unlikely that any actual apocalypsing was going to take place at least.

Now he was just getting bored.

He called Aziraphale’s name experimentally a few times but there was no reply. Not that he wanted one. Though if the Angel was truly sorry he wouldn’t deny him the privilege of proving it by making have another cup of tea. With a few biscuits, maybe.

Minutes passed.

Nothing happened.

After a while, more minutes passed.

Nothing continued to happen.

It wasn’t right, somehow. Crowley very rarely timed his entrance this badly. Centuries of practice meant that he had perfected the fine art of turning up at the end of battle in order to steal all the credit and avert all the blame. It made him feel quite American.

He checked his watch and took along long drink of tea. It wasn’t particularly good tea. Maybe if Aziraphale was feeling really, really sorry he could bring him some of that nice Afternoon Blend from Fortnum and Mason. He’d settle for the Darjeeling though.

Actually, he’d probably settle for Tesco Finest if he could just persuade some idiot to go and brew it for him. Bonus points if that idiot just so happened to be Aziraphale and he brought biscuits with him. And didn’t push him into any more mud.

Had Crowley admitted to having feelings, he mind have considered them hurt by such things.

A long, sad slurp confirmed the news he had been dreading – his cup of tea was finished. Surely those idiots couldn’t take that much longer?

For the first time, it struck Crowley that he was sitting in a completely empty house with absolutely no sign of a rescue going on. How embarrassing – looked like he’d come to the wrong creepy cabin in the middle of the woods after all.

No, that couldn’t be right. This was definitely the right creepy cabin in the woods and this was definitely the one they were meant to be making a rescue attempt on. So where was everyone? And more to the point, where were all those muffled shouts for help coming from?

* * *

As far as rescue missions could be described as ‘going well’ before any actual rescuing ever occurred, this one wasn’t. The trap door was stuck fast and generally speaking, when an Angel was hammering on something as hard as possible and it wasn’t budging a single inch, it probably wasn’t worth trying plans B, C, D or E. Or F and G for that matter. Not that they had thought of those yet, but they were likely to involve much of the same.

“It won’t open” Cas said, rather unhelpfully.

Dean cast a glance around the very tiny basement. It seemed empty, which was strange. He was sure he’d heard screaming coming from just over…

“ARRRRRRRRRRGH!”

…there.

He jumped down the last couple of rungs and grinned in satisfaction at the hollow sound that rang out from the nearest wall as his foot knocked against it. Well, he’d found the door at least. The only problem was, it appeared to have very recently lost its door handle and was, as a result, stuck fast.

Waiting for Cas to follow, he peeled back the Satanic looking rug (not a very good one, it seemed, as the pentagram was clearly wonky) wedged to the wall and began feeling for any gap in the wood he could find.

“Do you think Crowley could unlock it from his side?”

The Angel was still staring up at the closed trap door, a frown on his face.

Dean shrugged. “Even if he can’t, you can whoosh us out, right? I mean, I don’t see any wards on it or anything.”

Cas nodded reluctantly, “I could, but… I don’t really want to draw any more attention to us. If that _was_ Michael earlier, then it’s best that we are gone before he returns.”

Dean nodded his agreement. “Yeah, I get you. So, we call Crowley then?” he checked his phone screen and swore under his breath at the ‘no signal’ symbol that appeared.

“Or yell for him, maybe.”

If Crowley was even still following them, that was. Knowing the Demon, he would have decided it was all far too much trouble by this point. Dean was amazed that he had even bothered to help in the first instance. Crowley, by his very nature, never did anything altruistic unless it could possibly lead to some horrendous cataclysm taking place.

“Let’s just get to Sam first. Then we can work out how to get out of here.”

He offered his hand to the Angel so he could jump down. There was a splintering noise directly beneath them.

“Damn it, Cas, how many Tacos have you been eating?”

They hastily backed away from the crack in the floor. “We should get this over with as soon as we can. I don’t want to be inside when this place collapses”

The floor splintered suddenly, sending cracks so far back that Dean found himself pressing back against the wall in fright. It suddenly dawned on his that he had no idea what the drop was like under the floorboards. If he ended up plummeting thirty feet he wasn’t going to be much use to anyone unless Cas could fix him up. Even then, the Angel had already told him he didn’t want to use his powers until he was sure whoever it was out there wasn’t looking out for them. He didn’t fancy the idea of having the crawl out of a basement with a broken leg the old fashioned way.

Which left the two of them trapped in a space approximately the size of a stationery cupboard and no way out.

Somewhere in the distance, Castiel was certain for the tiniest of moments that he could hear a presence rubbing its hands together in glee. Well, when you were trapped in a confined space with another person, there really was only one appropriate course of action.

“Dean?”

“Uh huh?”

“I need you to get close to me.”

The hunter spluttered, suddenly glad that they didn’t have much in the way of light available. “Close to you?” He eyed the broken part of the floor with caution.  “Close to you as in… close to you?”

“Yes.”

“Cas, I…er… we… “ Dean braced his hands against the sturdiest of the four walls to steady himself. “Look, it’s not that… I just not think this is the best time to…”

“Dean, I can’t get a clear shot at the door with you standing there.”

“Oh.”

Dean finally allowed himself to let go of the breath he’d been holding. Blast the wall – right, of course Cas wanted to blast the wall. That made perfect sense.

The only problem was that there wasn’t exactly much room to get out of the line of fire without getting extremely cosy with an Angel who was about to demolish one quarter of the tiny structure they were trapped in, whilst hoping against hope that the rest of the place didn’t come down too. Swallowing down his embarrassment as best he could, Dean wrapped his arms around Cas and held on tight.

There was a blast.

There was a clatter.

And a long, loud cry of “OUCH!”

* * *

Things weren’t going terribly well for Aziraphale. First the Ritz had finally noticed that Mr A. Z. Iraphale had not cleared his tab since 1906, then he’d been knocked out by some mystery force and woken up with the sort of hangover from hell that Angels simply did not get and then what felt like half the ceiling had clonked him on the head on its way down to clonking him on the toes as well.

To make things worse, one Sam Winchester had found the whole situation incredibly funny. As had Dean and Castiel once they’d climbed through the remains of the wall and nearly landed on his lap. Crowley wasn’t with them.

Dean smirked and looked around the room. “Sammy! There you are. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Well you took your sweet time.” Sam grinned up as his friends. “Hey Cas.”

“Hello Sam.”

The younger Winchester attempted to raise a hand in greeting, grinning in embarrassment when the ropes restrained him half way. “So, you going to untie me or what?”

Aziraphale felt a pang of annoyance that no one had bothered to ask him how he was yet. Or said hello. Or even noticed that he’d been kidnapped too. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“Hello Dean. Hello Castiel.”

The other Angel turned to Aziraphale with a look of mild surprise. “Aziraphale?”

“I got kidnapped too.” Aziraphale’s tone was one of a four year old who had just been told he couldn’t have any more cookies. “See?”

Castiel’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “How?”

“Same way Sam did, obviously.”

“But… you’re an Angel. How did they…?”

“They just did, okay!” Aziraphale’s voiced climbed several octaves over the course of the sentence. “You should be rescuing me!”

Dean and Cas exchanged a glance. Then Dean and Sam exchanged another. Finally, the eldest Winchester shrugged his shoulders and set about sawing through Sam’s bonds. “Sure thing, Angel. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Aziraphale huffed. Then, when he didn’t get the desired response, he puffed. As a very last resort, he drew on all of his knowledge of human sounds of displeasure and tutted.

"Az, seriously, could you just STOP. I'm going as fast as I can here."

The ropes holding Sam finally gave way with a satisfying snap and the younger Winchester sat up, ribbing gingerly at his wrists.

"I still don't see why you couldn't have just whooshed out of those."

Azirphale scowled. "I told you, human. Angel reasons. You wouldn't understand."

Sam mused on this for a moment and then turned his attention to Castiel.

"So, Cas!" he asked brightly, "why wouldn't an Angel escape from being tied to a chair by just flying off?"

Castiel thought on this for a moment. "I suppose it would depend on whether there was warding up. Or even warding on the ropes. I have heard of it happen."

Sam nodded. "Cool, so, these wards. Are they down here?"

Cas shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"Huh."

Sam turned his attention back to Aziraphale. "So, why then?"

The Angel glared back. "Not that I….  I don’t need to …because 'mind your own business' why not"

It took Sam a moment to unravel all the negatives in that sentence, but once he had he became fairly certain that Aziraphale had just been kind of rude to him. Well, that was nice. First he wouldn't rescue him. Then he wouldn't even explain why. The bound Angel pursed his lips and tried to peer around Dean’s shoulder.

"Anyway. I thought you said Crowley was with you."

Dean shrugged his shoulder. "He was. At least I think he was. We seem to have lost him. Come on, hold still and we'll get you out of these."

Aziraphale's face suddenly changed to one of panic. "No!"

Three startled and slightly sceptical faces peered back at him.

"I mean...er... the hell scouts might be back soon. You'd be best off just leaving me and saving yourselves. Don't worry about me."

He smiled brightly. Dean's expression of incredulity intensified.

"Leave you here? Leave you… _here?_ "

"Yep. Just leave me here. I'll be fine. Maybe someone else will be along to rescue me in a bit. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Spreading the work load around."

The cogs were turning in Sam's head as the Angel babbled. There was no logical reason why the Angel would stay behind on purpose. Not one that he could think of anyway. Unless...

"What, you want someone better to save you instead or something? We humans not good enough to save your sorry arse?"

Aziraphale's eyes flicked from Sam to Dean and back. He nodded eagerly.

"Exactly! Now, I'm sure you three need to be on your way. Don't mind me, I'll just wait here."

Sam snorted. "Dude, the only person who is going to even think of rescuing you around here is Crowley and... wait, you want CROWLEY to rescue you?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat and hastily averted his gaze. "Gosh, I think I hear footsteps. You fellows had best be getting a move on if you don't want to get trapped down here."

Dean sighed. "Just leave him if he feels like that. No point in reasoning with one of those feather brained dicks once they get all precious about something."

He glanced up and sighed. "Sammy, any bright ideas on how to get a locked trap door open from the inside? Better yet, any idea how we get back through that hole with severing something?" he pointed to the jagged outline in the wall. It didn't look a particularly hospitable way to exit the basement.

Sam eyed the sharp fragments of wood and grimaced. "I vote Cas whooshes us out. You can carry both of us, right?"

The Angel shook his head. "I don't know. I could try. It would be easiest if we took one of you each."

Aziraphale hastily averted his gaze. "I told you. Waiting here. Grown to like the place, actually."

“For God’s sake.” Dean erupted. Both Angels winced in unison. “Crowley isn’t coming. It’s us or no one.”

Aziraphale chewed his bottom lip as he considered this. “I suppose you’d better untie me then. We’d best be cracking on with solving the mystery of what’s possessing Sam, anyway.”

The Angel realised a moment too late that he should probably have thought before he spoke. Sam’s horrified gaze snapped straight to his brother’s.

“Can somebody please explain to me what the hell is going on?”

* * *

 


	9. Thursday 11am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dum da da duuuuum. Chater nine for all my lovely readers. Hope you enjoy!

In the end Aziraphale had agreed to fly Sam back to the bunker if (and only if) there was the promise of a cup of tea once his got there. His head still hurt and that wasn’t helping his mood one jot. How dare Crowley not come and rescue him! What if he had really been kidnapped instead of just pretending?  What if the Hell Scouts had come back? (Where had they gone, anyway?) It simply wasn’t good enough and he was going to have some stern words with the Demon when he next saw him.

More than that, he was bothered that he’d even ended up down there to begin with. The immediate danger over, he’d felt memories nagging at his mind ever since he’d flown out of there, bubbling slowly to the surface now he didn’t have anything else to occupy him.

Had one of the Hell Scouts opened the door and managed to over power him somehow? It did not seem altogether likely but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he had knocked on that door and that it was the last thing he could remember doing.

That, and hearing laughter. Strangely familiar laughter.

The Angel shuddered and concentrated his mind on the matter at hand, namely explaining to a seriously hacked off Sam Winchester why he and Crowley had come to the bunker to investigate in the first place.

Sam hadn’t given even a flicker of recognition when Aziraphale had handed him his diary back. First he’d denied even keeping a diary, then, when shown the hastily scribbled prophecies in his own handwriting had simply fallen silent and stared in disbelief.

“I don’t understand. Why would I do that? How did Crowley even get this?”

Aziraphale perked up hopefully at the sound of Crowley’s name. “He keeps a close eye on any prophety activity. You know, so he can be on the lookout for the prophet who’ll be predicting the end of days.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And he thought that might be me?”

“Well… yes. The devices we use for detecting this sort of thing aren’t exactly accurate. They just tell us when…well…. when something prophecy-ish is going on.”

The four of them stared down at the notebook.

“Any suggestions?” Dean ventured.

“Not many.” Sam replied. He traced the red scribbles in the margin with an index finger. “Hey, what are these things?”

“Annotations.” provided Aziraphale, pleased to be asked something he actually did know the answer to for once. “We started marking down the ones that came true.”

Sam nearly choked on his long overdue mug of coffee.

“The ones that… but… I thought you said these _weren’t_ really prophecies?

The Angel shrugged. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, my dear old stick. You don’t have to be a prophet to get it right sometimes. Thought this is looking more like about thirty five per cent of the time at the moment.”

“This one happened too.” Cas jabbed his thumb at the fridge door. “Does that count?”

“Forty per cent, then. I certainly wouldn’t recommend buying that lottery ticket quite yet.”

“Well, this one sounds really weird.” Sam peered closer at the page, trying to decipher the untidy scrawl. “Behold, your troubles he shall fix, outside the door is… a mountain of dicks?”

He and Dean swapped glances a moment before the knock at the door echoed through the kitchen.

“Honey buns? I’m home!”

Crowley jumped over the hearth with a flourish, even managing not to spill the stolen mug of tea clutched tightly in his right hand. Sam surreptitiously picked up the pen and started making notes.

“AND I snagged these M&Ms from the Hell Scouts’ lair. Naughty little pixies, stashing all these treats about the place. You don’t have to be evil to know that that won’t lead to anything good. So, I stole them. For their own good, really.” He deposited the bag on the table and downed a handful. “Mmmph. S’good. Shift, Angel.”

And with that, he deposited himself straight into the chair that Aziraphale had vacated seconds beforehand. The chair, Aziraphale reminded himself, silently fuming, that Crowley _knew_ he had been sitting in because the Angel’s coat was still sitting in it. Typical.

“We were _just saying-“_

“So, where did we get to?” Crowley cut across him and flashed Sam the sort of smile that would have been described as “winning” if it hadn’t come from the Lord of Hell. As it was, it was the sort of smile that made grown men want to hide behind the sofa and douse themselves in holy water. Even Sam faltered in the face of it.

“We…er… I think Aziraphale was just going to explain.”

The smile darkened into the kind of look Sam imagined a not-so-benevolent dictator might bestow on a not-so-loyal subject about to suffer a severe case of head not being not-so-attached-to-shoulders. He cleared he throat. “So, erm. Yeah. Some of these have come true and…er…some haven’t. So… we should go back over the ones that haven’t and see if they make us think of anything.”

“Sounds like an excellent plan.” Crowley propped his feet up on the coffee table and thrust his tea mug under Aziraphale’s nose in the gesture universally loathed by baristas the world over. “Refill, please.”

The little smirk that played about his lips as the Angel flew off in a huff for the umpteenth time that day made Sam decide once and for all to bang their heads together the next time he got the chance.

* * *

“Lord of Hellish Evilness and stuff, we are sorry we failed you.”

Draconara Eloise Raven Blinchester (or Susan, as she was better known when not dressing up and playing at being a servant of darkness) didn’t like failing. She didn’t like failing classes, didn’t like failing tests and certainly didn’t like failing in carrying out the commands of a ruthlessly handsome Lords of Darkness. That last one didn’t feel good at all.

On the upside, the Lord of Darkness didn't seem to be overwhelmingly bothered by said failure. Which was a relief, given that if he had been he would probably have burned them all alive or something suitably bad and evil. Susan shuddered in glee to think of the dark trials his evil mind might cook up if given the chance.

Disappointingly, for someone who had promised that he was ‘really, really bad and terribly naughty’ (his words, which had, granted, seemed a bit odd coming from a hellish death lord) and would reward them all fabulously for carrying out his nefarious schemes.

No one who wasn't evil had nefarious schemes. It just could not be done.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it, Susie-pops." the dark Lord mused. She badly wanted to correct him, but thought rather better of antagonising a man who could turn her into a newt.

Susan was good at antagonising people. In fact, her teachers had frequently remarked that if she ever decided to put as much effort into her school work as she did into being a petulant little madam, then she would one day be president of the UN. Unfortunately, school work didn't interest Susan nearly so much as the promise of the dark arts. There were all too few excuses to torture people in the former and _far_ too many risks of being tortured oneself. In fact, not going back to school until she had at least learned to burn out the eyeballs of anyone who looked at her funny was bordering on just plain silly. It was survival skills, plain and simple.

She wasn't technically allowed to be an evil mistress of untold power, of course. That was against her parents rules. Just like not being allowed to pierce her tongue or dye her hair black or have a pet tarantula. No one understood how horribly isolating it could be to be so terribly evil and have no one understand that fact. At all.

At least now, she had Lucifer.

He was so very evil. And so very delicious to look at. She could lick him all over if only he'd cover himself in Nutella first. And he trusted her to do his dark bidding - _her_. Kidnapping that hunter had been the first assignment and she had _so_ been looking forward to helping the Dark Lord interrogate him. But he'd escaped. Escape before they'd even finished off the first set of questions, as well.

It was just plain bad manners, really.

Why on earth the Lord of Darkness was interested in what kind of Angels the Hunter found most attractive, Susie had absolutely no clue whatsoever. She assumed that it would be a suitably evil reason. Maybe the Dark Lord planned to kidnap one and use her against the hunter. It would certainly have been an evil thing to do.

Curses! If only they hadn't all had to go shoe shopping on the Dark Lord’s orders and leave the hostage unattended, she and Lucifer could have been torturing him right then. Not bad torture, of course, just the evil and fun kind. Susie sighed heavily as the disappointment set it - she never got to have evil fun.

"I shall retrieve him for you, oh terrible and nefarious one." she sank into a bow and nearly tripped over her own cloak. Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

"No no, that won't be necessary. You and your little pals have done a sterling job and will be rewarded as promised."

Inside, Susie squealed with excitement. Lucifer had promised her a great weapon to use against the school bullies and she couldn't wait to try it out. Maybe it would make their heads explode or maybe it would make their eyeballs fall out. Maybe it did both and maybe then their eyes would turn inside out and they'd melt into a slimy little puddle never to be seen again. She did hope so.

"Thank you, oh very, very nasty and mean one. I appreciate your kindness. I..er... I mean your evilness."

Lucifer laughed. "Get up, you look really silly doing that. And you don't need to grovel, I told you, I'm very pleased with your work."

"With my bringing the hunter to you, Sir?"

"Yes, yes. He looked rather doable in his new t-shirt, didn’t you think? Brings out his eyes."

Susan wasn't quite sure how to reply to that one, so she concentrated on looking evil a bit more. She was getting quite good at it now but it never hurt to get a bit more practice in.

"He is divine." Sabriel carried on, a faraway look in his eyes. "Of course, my brother would never let me hear to end of it if he knew but hey, he doesn't, so never mind him. Well, mind him, sadly. I have to mind him to get what I want. Well, it’s what he wants too, he just doesn’t know that yet."

He sighed.

"Why must people be so complicated, Susan?"

She'd given up trying to get him to call her Draconara. And previous Willowe, and Aurelia, and Raven and Blycknight and Darknyss and a hundred other names. He insisted on calling her Susan all the time though how he even knew that was her name she didn't know. As far as she was aware, no one had ever told him.

It was just a mystery. Lucifer seemed full of mysteries. He could do magic as well, which was just unfairly awesome in a big way.

"I don't know, oh calculating and terrible one." she replied at last. "Especially boys. Boys are really rubbish."

Lucifer smiled to himself.

"Ah, you are young. You will learn."

"What? Learn that boys aren't rubbish?"

Lucifer laughed so hard she wondered if he was going to choke to death on his own bad joke.

"No! I mean you will come to learn that they are every bit as bad as you think they are and much, much worse."

Susan sniffed. "I bet you don't have any trouble getting people to do what you want."

Lucifer’s smile faded. "You would be surprised, dear Susan." he sighed. "Very surprised."

Susan thought about this for a moment, then shrugged.

"Well, anyway. If you're not mad at us for letting the hostage escape, can I have my reward now?"

Watching her eager face, Lucifer’s smirk grew as he nodded his head.

"The weapon, you asked for the weapon, didn't you?"

Susan nodded eagerly. "The one that would deal with all the school bullies and maybe make their arms fall off and stuff."

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. "I don't know how well it would work for cutting arms off, but I promise you. It is the best weapon for dealing with bullies I have ever come across. Now, give me your hand and I'll show you."

Susan frowned at him in confusion. "Show me? I thought it was a thing. You know, the sort of thing that you can take to school and them BAMF, no more bullies. _That_ kind of thing."

"There is that kind of thing too," Lucifer mused. "But trust me on this one." he beckoned Susan closer and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“You could say, my girl, that this advice is completely priceless…”

* * *

After Aziraphale’s umpteenth disappearing act of the day, Dean had decided that enough was enough and that they were going to get to the bottom of what was going on and quickly. Firstly because whatever was going on had already resulted in Sam being kidnapped and was only likely to get more dangerous at time passed. Secondly, Crowley and Aziraphale weren’t going to get out of her hair until this was done and dusted and he really didn’t want to deal with the grief of trying to kill either one of them.

Mostly because they’d both probably kick his arse, but if they kept this up he was likely to forget and just try to stick a kitchen knife in one or both of them before the morning was out.

How? _How_ was it still morning? At least it would be lunch time soon, which would provide a distraction of sorts. A distraction to Crowley munching M&Ms loudly in his ear every five seconds, anyway.

Sam had put forward the bright idea of clipping the various prophecies out of the diary and dividing them up between the four of them and in the absence of anything even resembling a better idea, that’s what they had done. So far, they’d turned up preciously nothing.

Sat in front of the elder Winchester was his poor, mutilated chopping board, the sight of which was doing absolutely nothing to improve his mood.

“AND WHEN THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS VISITS UPON THY MARKETPLACE KNOW THAT ALL THAT CAN BEAT HIM BACKIS THE COMBINED POWER OF THOSE WHOSE CLOAK BELIES THEIR INNER NATURE FOR INSIDE LIES A HEART THAT KNOWS NO DIFFERENCE FROM ITS BROTHERS”

He turned the words over and over in his head but all they did was remind him that he needed to go shopping for groceries before lunch. If the prophecy really was trying to tell him that he needed to go a buy milk, it was wasting its time. He’d already discovered that when he’d given in and gone to make Crowley another cup of tea.

He wasn’t the biggest fan of grocery shopping but it was starting to look like a gift horse he couldn’t care less what was in the mouth of. A whole hour’s break from Crowley and Aziraphale (once the latter showed back up, which he generally did once he grew tired of not having Crowley’s attention any more) was starting to sound like bliss. So much so that he made it through about another minute of research before standing up and announcing that he was going to go and stock up the fridge for lunch. No one thought it a bad idea – Crowley even started jotting him down a list which Dean ‘accidentally’ forgot to take with him in his rush to get outside and back to the only likely source of intelligent company in this neck of the woods.

There she was.

His face lit up when he saw her and he quickened his pace, reaching out a hand in greeting.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now. Damn, I am glad we’re alone at last.”

Baby didn’t say much in response, of course, but he knew that she understood.

* * *

There are many misconceptions about Death.

Some will tell you he is a corrosive, malevolent force to be fought against at all costs. Others will disagree and argue that Death is but a part of the natural order of all things, a crucial role in a world of chaos and power.

Battersea Cats home will tell you that a very underweight man named Bill is an absolutely cracking bloke and a real friend to anything cute, fluffy and feline. But that’s not relevant for the time being.

What almost no one will tell you about death is how partial he is to party rings, jelly beans and peanut M&Ms. This is because people almost never invite Death around to tea. No one, that is, except the other three horsemen of the apocalypse, the 12th Chapter of the Hells Angels and the occasional Angel dropping in to ask if the man in the black hood had seen Dean Winchester recently.

Death liked tea parties. And cats. Mostly cats.

Famine didn’t really like party rings. Or confectionary of any kind, really. Sweeties rather went against the whole idea of starvation, he found. Such a shame, because they were perfectly yummy otherwise.

War, on the other hand, loved party rings. She loved biscuits of all kinds. So much conflict could erupt over the last biscuit – it was a truly wonderful sight to behold. Pollution wasn’t all that bothered either way, so long as you threw the wrapper next to the bin afterwards.

Still, they were all getting together to celebrate 100 years since War’s favourite conflict and that was really what friends (or compatriots of darkness) were for.

Death just really hoped that no one would get the wrong idea this time. There was something about the four horsemen of the apocalypse getting together for a chinwag and a glass of Prosecco that seemed to upset people.

Well, upset hero types.

It didn’t take an awful lot to upset hero types.

It took a lot more to upset Death. Such as the fact that some idiot in a 1967 Impala had just cut him and Binky up on the way to the grocery store. Still, there were more important matters at hand than teaching bad drivers some manners.

You couldn’t have a tea party if you hadn’t bought any party rings.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill. Commenters get Crowley popping round with M&Ms x x x x


	10. Thursday 12pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot (yes, I do call it a plot, almost) thickens this week. So many questions, so few answers.
> 
> Who on earth is making prophecies?
> 
> Is the world going to end?
> 
> What IS the plural of "Moose"?
> 
> It's time to submit ourselves to the infinite wisdom of Sam Winchester, Hunter.

Despite what everyone thought, Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord, was not hiding away and sulking. He had been to begin with, after all it was the thing he liked to think he did best. Unfortunately, he was now doing the _other_ thing he did best, namely getting himself kidnapped and held hostage by non humans.

It wasn’t his favourite past time, by any means.

Neither was being tied to a chair. It was uncomfortable and highly undignified and to have it done to him twice a day made him a very grumpy Angel indeed. As did being kidnapped, but that was another issue, really.

“Hello?” he called into the darkness. “Is anyone there?”

Presumably someone was. It would be a bit pointless to kidnap an Angel and then just leave them in a dark room by themselves forever.

Though, despite that logical reassurance, Aziraphale rather hoped that someone would come along quite soon as he was getting rather anxious about the whole thing.

“Hello?” he tried again. “I’m…I’m awake now. You know, if you wanted to interrogate me or anything.” He added brightly. “I know lots of interesting things. I could tell you all about them.”

Footsteps sounded in the distance and then fell silent.

“Oh come on!” Aziraphale begged “just get on with it. I’ve got a busy day lined up doing… angel things. My friends are going to come looking for me if you don’t…”

He craned his neck to look up. A surprisingly familiar pair of eyes met his own.

“You!”

“Me.” Replied the voice.

“You’d better let me go right this minute, or else I’ll…”

“Or else you’ll do what?” his new companion smirked. “Tell on me to Crowley? Your little pet demon doesn’t care where you are, Az.”

At the sight of the Angel’s stricken face he quickly added “He’s pretending he doesn’t, anyway. I know he does, deep down.”

A slightly mollified Angel stared back at him. “Fine. I don’t care if he does or doesn’t, anyway. He can care as much as he likes and I shan’t care back one little, tiny –“

“Aziraphale. Can this wait? I need your help.”

The Angel glanced down sceptically at the ropes that bound him to the chair and the figure sighed.

“Look, if I take those off will you promise not to fly away.”

The Angel thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. I promise.”

A click of his fingers and the ropes curled on the ground, allowing the Angel to stretch his arms out at last.

“Ah, much better. Now, you said you have a problem?”

The figure smiled. “I do. And it looks like you do too.” He leaned in close and whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, “how about I show you mine and you show me yours, hmm?”

* * *

Once Dean had got out of the bunker, hit the road and cranked the radio up to full volume, he was starting to feel an awful lot better. No Angels, no prophecies and no one trying to sell him evil cookies. Yes, this was definitely an upgrade on the rest of his morning.

As the familiar sights flashed by him, he wondered how long he could feasibly string out his grocery run. If he stayed out long enough, the others might have half solved the thing without him, which would save him one hell of a headache later on. Better yet, they might have worked out their differences and started behaving like adults.

No, on second thoughts, several millennia was probably a little longer than necessary to buy lunch.

Omelettes seemed like a pretty good bet. Mostly because they were quick and so he could justify turning up no more than ten minutes before they were supposed to eat and not get in trouble.

That meant he needed an excuse to take him sweet time. It didn’t take long to buy eggs . After that, he just needed milk and some options of what to put in the damn things so nobody would complain. Cas would want cheese, guacamole, sour cream and whatever else you put on tacos these days (and things like tacos and things not much like tacos and things that generally weren't anything like tacos) Sam would want veggies of some kind. Possibly of many kinds and maybe with some leafy stuff shoved in there. Crowley would eat what he was damn well given and if the Angel showed back up he could cook his own lunch. That left only himself to cater for and he had an hour of joyful peace and quiet to come up with something suitably delicious to fill his own lunch with. Hell, he had the time to try out every option he could think of. Starting with bacon, probably.

The car park of the grocery store was pretty empty and he pulled to a stop in two empty bays together, relishing the fact that things finally seemed to be looking up. He spent a moment listening to the end of the song on the radio and let himself hum along softly for a little while before turning the engine off and going to find himself a cart to take round.

He was secretly glad that none of the others had wanted to come with him. Well, that wasn't quite true. Cas had been making eager eyes at the door the moment Dean had suggested he pop out and run a few errands but there was no way he was leaving Sam alone with Aziraphale and Crowley for an extended period of time. Cas might not be the sanest Angel in all the universe but at least he was pretty unlikely to go and indulge in a spate of kidnapping, murder or apocalyptic hijinks, which made him Dean's preferred choice of companion for his brother on that particular afternoon.

 

There was hardly anyone in the store which wasn't really surprising on such a nice day. Alone, he could allow himself to properly enjoy the monotony of wandering up and down the aisles, picking out lunch for everyone and sneaking a longing glance or two at the new luxury cookware being displayed in the far aisle. If the others were here he could almost guarantee that the relative peace would have been quickly shattered but some kind of encounter with a hell fiend or worse - a fight between Az and Crowley over which tea bags to get. (Dean had witnessed this on several occasions and had absolutely zero desire to ever do so again.) It seemed that they could never just enjoy a day out together without something crazy happening. Hell, it wasn't all that often that he himself could step outside the door without some kind of crazy call to duty kicking off somewhere, but at least today if he ran into a nest of hitch hiking vamps on the way home, he'd still have a car full of groceries to show for his troubles.

Maybe he'd grab one of those hot chickens from the counter. He could eat a whole one right now and he hadn't even been killing things to work up an appetite.

There was about a hundred different kinds of cheese and for a moment he contemplated texted Cas to ask what kind he wanted. Could he just pray and ask? He was never sure. It felt kind of like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, communicating with Cas in that way over something which wasn't all that important when you really got down to it.

Still, Cas would want some input on what honey he got (the angel had begged for pancakes again tomorrow and he was still kind of fighting down the craving himself after being cruelly denied twice in one day) so maybe a call was safest.

He chucked a couple of aubergines and courgettes in the trolley and hummed a tune as he pushed his loaded cart toward the breads aisle. Not that they needed bread, it was just one of those smells that put him in a really good mood. After that came the dairy (Sam's watery excuse for milk and a carton of the real stuff for himself joined the vegetables) and a round of what looked like posh cheese, so the angels at least would probably eat it.

He toyed with the idea of getting some Lucky Charms, having never been allowed them growing up but he quickly figured that Sam would probably confiscate the box before he could make any kind of decent progress with it. Sammy had learned well from their strictly no nonsense father in some respects it seemed. Dean tried not to feel too bitter about it at he tossed a couple of boxes of muesli in along the rest.

It was when he reached the aisle that was stacked with jars of various preserves and honey that his resolve broke and he decided that he may as well call Cas - he could go back to enjoying his solitude easily enough afterwards and at least then he wouldn't be wasting money on something that turned out to be from the wrong kind of bees or some such crap.

The phone range for ages and by the time Cas picked up he'd started wondering if he'd missed another kidnapping or something. The Angel sounded pretty near the end of him tether over the sound of Sam and Crowley arguing over pretty much nothing in the background, though he cheered up pretty noticeably when Dean started reeling off the labels to him. Manuka seemed to get him particularly excited, for some reason and Dean really shouldn't have been terribly surprised when he turned to place it between the packets of cereal and came face to face with his friend, still clutching the phone to his ear.

“Hello Dean.”

He thought about pretending to jump out of his skin, just for tradition’s sake, but instead he just grinned sympathetically at the angel. “They driving you crazy, huh?” He ended the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“They’ve started arguing about the correct plural of Moose, Dean. I couldn’t take any more.”

Dean didn’t even bother trying to stifle the laugh that erupted. “You’re kidding me? That’s the nerdiest thing I ever heard.”

“It wasn’t very interesting.”

“Dude, they spend their spare time battling the worst the supernatural world can throw at them and they want to argue over grammar? That’s really, really lame.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

Dean picked up another jar and stared at it quizzically. “I will, then.”

Castiel fell into step beside him as he manoeuvred the trolley around the corner of the aisle and into confectionary.

“Crowley said to bring back more M&Ms.”

Dean muttered something about demons taking too many damned liberties and tossed a couple of bags in.

“I don’t think he meant the peanut ones.”

“Hey, in my house he can eat what he’s damn well given. He’s lucky he’s getting fed at all and not locked in the basement where he can’t keep on annoying me like this.”

Cas rifled through the rest of the chocolate, peering curiously at the different wrappers until he finally settled on some horrendous sounding concoction of chilli and lime. Dean gave the shelves a cursory glance to see if there was such a thing as pecan chocolate bars yet. There still wasn’t. It was like a tiny kick in the teeth every time. If they were crazy enough to start sticking chillis in poor, defenceless chocolate then they could do at least one tiny little thing for him, couldn’t they?

Apparently no, they couldn't. It was a terrible business decision, if you asked him. Not that any chocolate bar researchers ever did ask him or obviously there would be more pecan and caramel chocolate bars on the market. He wondered if they had that kind of thing in heaven, if some sort of giant vending machine out of someone’s imagination actually existed up there in paradise. I mean, really awesome chocolate had to be someone's idea of heaven, right?

Sometimes the entire confectionary industry left him feeling personally victimised.

 

"Are we done?" Cas asked "Because I was going to go and call Sam."

Dean raised an eyebrow "You were? How come? You guys were together like a minute ago, Didn’t you talk then?"

Cas looked at him blankly. "Of course we talked then. He told me to call him in exactly three minutes so he could get away from Crowley."

Dean laughed out loud at that and made a mental note to congratulate his little brother on that bit of genius later on. "You'd better call him then, no sense leaving him to suffer." He took a step back and rested both his forearms on the cart, watching and grinning.

"Hey Sam. Yes, yes it's me. Yes, hi. No, no, we're fine, we don’t need any help. No, it's fine, really. Yes, yes I'm sure, it's just..."

Dean was sure he heard Sam's voice growling out instructions to Crowley. Apparently their little plan wasn't exactly going to plan after all. "Yes, yes. That's fine. I er... no, wait, Sam, there is. There's a demon, right here in the aisle. Oh no, wait, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go Sam, Bye!"

He hurriedly clicked the "end call" button and wheeled around to look straight at Dean with an expression of stunned disbelief.

“Easy buddy.” He reached out a hand to pat the Angel’s arm. “You really sold it. That get Sam out of the bunker for a while, then?”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“Dean.”

“ _What?”_

“You need to turn around.”

Slowly, against all his instincts, he turned his head.

There, just beside the racks of toffee coated popcorn, it stood. Its glowing red eyes fixed squarely on the two of them.

* * *

“Crowley, why the hell would it be Meese? Moose, Meese, it doesn’t go like that. It’s Mooses, okay? Or just Moose. Moose singular, Moose plural.”

“One moose, two moose, three moose, four moose? It’s meese, Moose, not Mooses.”

“It’s Mooses. Not Meese, and it isn’t relevant anyway so I don’t want to talk about it.”

Crowley reclined back in his chair with the horribly satisfied smirk of someone who thinks they’ve won an argument when they haven’t.

Sam hated that. Dean did it sometimes but that was Dean so it didn't really count. Crowley was Crowley so it did count. It counted a lot and it was seriously, seriously annoying. Annoying enough that Cas had flown off right around the time that Crowley had got out a battered copy of the Oxford English Dictionary to try and back up his argument. Sam had wanted to fly away too.

Anyway, with Cas to chivvy him along it at least meant that dean would be back soon. Crowley behaved a smidgen better when the older Winchester was around, if only because he dimly suspected that he was the brother more likely to shove a sword through him if he crossed the line one time too many.

He was probably wrong about that. Sam had been carefully considering the whereabouts of the nearest gun, sword, axe and holy water for the last twenty minutes. And he didn't need any of those to simply punch the Lord of Hell squarely on the nose.

They hadn't exactly got any further with decoding the prophecies either. There were lots of references to a band of hundreds of brothers, alike only on the inside but that kind of thing was par for the course among cults and gangs and tribes alike. They weren't expecting any trouble from one in particular though, so he didn't know where to follow that train of thought even if he wanted to.

Lines about the sweetness of victory cropped up intermittently and Sam had been wondering if it could be a metaphor or clue of some sort. He mentioned this to Crowley but all this resulted in was the demon started to waffle on about wanting some M&Ms again.

He hoped Dean turned up soon with the damned M&Ms. Better yet some really, really sticky toffee that could glue the demon’s jaws shut for a while. Or knock him out. Either had the desired effect.

Sitting back in his own chair, he sighed and silently wished that Cas had stayed with them. He was starting to think that the Angel had forgotten their little deal when the phone rang. Cas, thankfully.

“Cas, hey! You okay there?”

"Hey Sam.”

“You got there okay?

“Yes, yes it's me.”

“Say hi to Dean for me, yeah?”

“Yes, hi.”

“So, you er… you need any help?” it was Cas’s cue to get him away from Crowley, at least for a moment or two. He awaited the response eagerly.

 “No, no, we're fine, we don’t need any help.”

“Oh. You’re sure?”

“No, it's fine, really.”

“What, really sure?”

 Yes, yes I'm sure, it's just..."

“Not even a little bit of help?”

"Yes, yes. That's fine. I er... no, wait, Sam, there is. There's a demon, right here in the aisle. Oh no, wait, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go Sam, Bye!"

The phone went dead, though Sam stared at it for a long time afterward. That didn’t sound anything like the definition of ‘good’.

* * *

“You know, I was wrong about you.” Aziraphale raised his tea mug in salute to his companion. “You are a genius. Possibly still an evil genius of sorts, but in a really, really good way.” He thought about it for a moment. “Although on some deep ethical level, I suspect that I ought to disapprove.”

The other Angel grinned and clinked his own mug against Aziraphale’s. “The lying, yes?”

“Yes. The lying. And, I suspect, a little more trickery on top of that”

The blond’s grin widened. “Other trickery, Azzie? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, my dear old stick, some terrible person knocked me for six on the doorstep of the hell scout bunker and I can’t remember a thing about-“

The other Angel waved his hand absently and slowly the memories came trickling back in. Standing on the front door step, waiting for an answer, looking up to see a familiar face and then fingers on his forehead and a blissful dreamy blackness. Oh yes, _of course_. Angels didn’t get hangovers.

“Better?”

Aziraphale fixed his companion with a knowing look. “Are you planning to give young Moose the same level of courtesy?”

“Of course, but not until I’ve won. That would be a waste.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, in the interest of keeping everyone honest, I suppose I’d best help you clean up your little mess sooner rather than later, no?”

Gabriel laughed out loud. “I knew you’d start seeing things my way in the end, now, where do we begin?”

* * *

A monster. In the middle of the grocery store. Oh boy, he should have been more suspicious about how well this day was finally going. Of course something would show up to try and eat him before he'd even got through the check outs. He was Dean Winchester, for Christ's sake. He wasn't allowed a quiet life for more than ten minutes.

 

His eyes scoured the aisle, searching for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. To his left, he could see Cas reaching for a tube of Maryland cookies. Not ideal but he didn't exactly have any better ideas. In the end he grabbed the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and threw as hard as he could.

The packet bounced off the monster's jaw without leaving much of an impression. It snarled and Dean saw the cookies fly in a graceful arc to bounce just as ineffectually off the top of the monster's head.

"Shit Cas." he murmured. "Shit shit shit. Any more bright ideas? Please tell me you brought something with you?"

Rather unhelpfully, Cas offered up the contents of his pockets. One blue biro, one red biro and a half finished packet of sticky notes. Sam's study materials, Dean recognised. Not remotely useful when trying to deal with a monster in the middle of aisle 14.

Reaching into the shopping cart, he mentally started ranking the items by weight and throwing them in that order. The milk was pretty effective, throwing the beast off balanced for a moment and stopping its advance but the same couldn't be said for the cereal, the apples, the various veggies or the eggs. He seriously needed a plan B.

"Cas, get behind me." he called out, stepping straight into the demon's line of sight. Some part of his brain was screaming that in all good, logical sense he should be standing behind Cas, who was probably the more resistant of the two to whatever the hell beastie was planning to do the them. But like hell was he taking any chances when he had dodgy stolen grace and a wacko prophecy to contend with.

Picking up the last of the items in the shopping cart, he realised the futility of what he was doing. It was Crowley's M&Ms. Why the hell couldn't the demon have asked him to bring back a frying pan or a knife or, hell, even a bottle of water would be more useful than this.

Splitting the bag in his hurry to throw it, Dean sent a shower of M&Ms all over the speckled tiles of the grocery store floor.

The monster froze. Behind him, Cas was muttering something, though he couldn't quite make out what.

Slowly, the thing began to shake and then, with a roar, it charged. Cas's mutterings grew louder and Dean thought he caught the words "market place" and "brothers" and something about being different. Either way, it wasn't going to help him much right now, not when they seriously urgently needed to get out of the way of the rapidly charging...

"UG UG UG UG UUUUUUUG"

With a strange cry, the thing slipped and fell flat on its face, collapsing into a pile of the sort of horrible sticky gloop that would be giving the grocery store cleaners a hard time for months to come.

 

It had slipped on the M&Ms.

It had slipped on the God damn M&Ms and hit itself so hard on the ground that hundred of the tiny things had imbedded themselves under its scales. Somehow, that had been enough.

"What the actual hell?" Dean muttered to himself, nudging at one of the offending sweets with his foot. "Defeated by candy? What the hell kind of monster gets defeated by candy?"

"I have.. I think I have heard of this before, Dean."

Cas's hand came to rest on his shoulder, the Angel's expression grim. "Do you remember the prophecy Sam left, just before he vanished?"

Dean scoffed. "Do I remember? Hell yes I remember, that had a perfectly good chopping board he ruined. What about it?"

Castiel looked done at his fingers awkwardly. "and when the Angel of darkness visits upon thy market place, know that all that can beat him back is the combined power of those whose cloak belies their inner nature, for inside lies a heart that knows no difference from its brothers."

Dean stared at him. "You... you think that whole bit about different on the outside and the same on the inside... you think that was about M&Ms, Cas?"

"It fits, doesn't it? I mean, we are standing in a market place after all."

"But you're not an angel of darkness." Dean pointed out. "No my by reckoning anyway, you're one of the good guys. The angel of darkness is somebody like, somebody like..."

He froze, rooted to the spot.

The man approaching them was also pushing a shopping cart. He was a handsome young man in sunglasses, not at all the sort of thing that would usually make Dean reach for the Angel blade he wished he was carrying right then, but this guy was different in a really, really crucial way. And not just because he was wearing sunglasses indoors (a sure sign of evil in Dean's eyes).

His fingers tightened around the bar of the shopping cart, steadying him from the shock suddenly coursing through his veins.

The young man picked up a packet of captain crunch and began to whistle. Dean's insides clenched. He wished he had another packets of M&Ms to throw. Anything to throw, in fact. Better yet, he wished he had something to use to stab the man. It might not do him any good at all, but at least he would have the satisfaction of messing up the stranger's sharp white suit.

* * *


	11. Thursday 1pm

_Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to Chapter 11!_

**And demons**

_Yes. And demons._

**You weren’t going to say “Demons.”**

_Shut up, Crowley, yes I was. You don’t get trusted to write the pre chapter notes without knowing to thank your Demon audience._

**I don’t remember Hari asking _you_ to write the pre-chapter notes, Az?**

_Well the alternative, Crowley darling, is letting either you, my delightful brothers or those awful Winchester fellows do it. Of course she meant that I should do it._

**I could do it.**

_Shut up. No you couldn’t._

**Could. I could mention loads of exciting bits from the next chapter to make people read on. Like that bit where there’s that monster, and that AK-47 and then-**

**What?**

_Never mind. I think it would be best if we got on with the chapter now, don’t you?_

**Whatever. Read on, mortals. Remember – a bad deed is its own reward, but uncle Crowley can always supply a better ince-**

_ANYWAY! Hari is really sorry this one took so long guys, and hopes you’re still reading and enjoying._

**Well of course they are, it’s a story with me in it.**

_And me!_

**Yes. And you. Anyway, little mortals, it’s story time. Draw up a chair, pour yourself some tea and relax. Relax, and prepare for the onslaught of evil to begin…**

** Chapter 11 **

Crowley was getting really, really bored now. Aziraphale was gone, Clarence was gone, Squirrel had taken himself off shopping and now Moose was ignoring him, even when he turned on the full force of his powers of irritation. He’d even messed his hair in the hope of a reaction of some kind and Moose had hardly moved.

He was staring at that damn block of wood again, as if his life depended on it.

“I think we should go after them, Crowley.” He said at last.

Crowley considered this for a moment. On the one hand, he really wasn’t the type to regularly launch missions to go and save people and doing so twice in one day was pushing him worryingly close to some kind of heroic good guy status that he usually tried to avoid at all costs. On the other hand, he was bored as heaven sitting around doing ‘research’ (or, as Crowley liked to put it, doodling rude things in the margins of priceless antique books on the occult) and watching things try to kill Squirrel and Clarence was always amusing.

Unfortunately, it would involve getting up.

Sloth was Crowley’s very favourite of the seven deadly sins, and he made a point of practising it whenever the opportunity presented itself. Abandoning his sinning to do some good deeds was uncomfortably similar to something a Winchester might do.

"I am sure they will be back soon enough." he said airily, waving a dismissive hand. "that, or they'll already have been eaten by the time we get there. Either way, not really much point in going."

Sam turned a completely ineffectual glare on the King of Hell and gripped the notebook tightly, as if wrangling with himself over something.

"I'm going to call Az" he said suddenly. "I think I should at least check."

"What?" Crowley slapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. "Don't call that feather brained idiot. He's probably still sulking anyway and besides, he wouldn’t take you over to the supermarket unless you ask him really nicely and by the time you’ve finished satisfying his requirements on 'nicely' it will either be too late or they'll already by back."

"Well, what do you suggest I do then?"

"Call them and ask if they're alive? Might save some time."

With that, Crowley seized the remote control and switched the TV on. Conveniently enough, every single channel was currently marathoning his all-time favourite show. Sam was fairly certain that they didn't usually show Sex and the City at lunchtime, definitely not on the crappy free to air stuff they had anyway, but it was there nonetheless.

"You want some alternative," Sam asked, reaching to flick through the DVDs on the shelf. "I've got a few more evil things stashed away in here if you prefer."

"This is fine."

If Sam didn't know better, he'd have sworn that there was something very, very defensive in the King of Hell's voice when he'd said that last part. A smile pulled at his lips. A slow, delicious revelation slowly dawned.

If he'd ever given it much thought, he'd have guessed that Dexter or the Walking Dead or at least Breaking Bad was more to the demon's taste, but it looked more like he'd come very, very wide of the mark.

Of course, it could be the case that Crowley was simply curious and had never seen the show, or was simply too lazy to change the channel. There was only really one way to know for certain and Sam knew instantly that, whatever the consequences, he really needed to know.

"So..." he sidled closer to Crowley, knocking his feet down from the couch to make room. "Which one are you?"

Crowley, unmistakably, went a little bit pink.

"What's that, Moose?" he asked. Sam grinned. Feigning sudden deafness was Castiel's favourite trick too, and it wasn't going to fool him for a single, solitary second.

"I said, which one are you? Or do you want me to guess?"

Crowley was doing that thing that people did when they didn't want a conversation to continue for another second but were rather at a loss of how to finish said conversation without drawing an awful lot of unwanted attention directly to this fact.

"I don't know what you mean." Crowley said at last. Sam's grin widened. Oh, this was going to be fun.

"I think you might be a Samantha." he ventured slowly, not missing the way Crowley's hands bunched into fists when he said it. "Flirty, extrovert... a bit on the British side. Probably dye your hair sometimes?"

The tension coming off the demon in waves was incredibly amusing.

"No no no, wait. You're a Miranda. Definitely a Miranda, how could I have missed it?"

"I am NOT a Miranda."

"A Carrie, then? Into the latest fashions? Open hearted, creative and friendly and forward thinking?"

Crowley was going to punch him really, really hard in a minute. It would almost be worth it, especially when he got to tell the story to Dean later, Not that it would stop Dean relentlessly ripping it out of him for actually knowing who the Sex and the City girls were.

"I'm a Charlotte." Crowley hissed in a terse voice. And if you repeat this conversation to your brother, I am going to smite you so hard you'll be making a new circle of hell.

He considered this for a moment, "One where they show nothing but reruns of Joey."

The King of Hell usually made good on his threats. On balance, Sam considered, it was probably best to shut up now. And not tell his brother. At least not until Crowley was a long way out of earshot and he'd had the opportunity to put some wards up.

 Lots of wards up, in fact.

He pulled out his phone and hesitated, before dialling Dean. He was overreacting, he was sure, but still - a monster in a supermarket was a pretty daring monster and pretty daring monsters often turned out to be pretty damn dangerous. ‘Daring’ meant not being worried about a hunter finding you and that said ‘confidence’.

After a few seconds, Cas answered the phone and immediately hissed that they couldn't really talk right now, but yes, the demon was banished and they'd used M&Ms because the prophecy had told them to.

Unsurprisingly, that bit made absolutely no sense at all to Sam but he assumed that they'd be able to offer an explanation of sorts when they got back. He was about to ask Castiel to clarify this when the Angel followed up his earlier bizarre statement with another.

"We're going to be a bit late because of evil fashion choices. Probably nothing to worry about but Dean wanted to be sure. I have to go. Good bye Sam."

The phone put off, leaving Sam staring at it in disbelief. Evil fashion choices? He must have heard that wrong. And M&Ms in the prophecy, to defeat the monster? Slowly, something whirred and clicked into place in his brain.

"The things that are different on the outside but the same on the inside? M&Ms? You can defeat a demon with M&Ms? How?" he murmured to himself.

That got Crowley's attention. "Wait. The demon got my M&Ms? What do you mean, the demon got my M&Ms?"

Oh, that thing could terrorise as many grocery stores as it wanted, in his opinion. It could eat Squirrel and Clarence and Moose too and he wouldn’t be bothered enough to smite the thing. But nobody, _nobody_ in the realms of heaven and earth took Crowley’s sweets and got away with it. That thing, or whoever summoned it, was going to pay and pay dearly.

“Come on, Moose!” he declared, leaping to his feet and snatching up his jacket. “We’ve got hunting to do. Your brother might be in trouble.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right.”

“Clarence too,” Crowley pressed, “You know how much I care for Clarence. Deep down. In my own way.”

Sam raised an eyebrow so high it disappeared into his hair. “Seriously?”

“That thing took my M&Ms, Sam” he added, buttoning up the front of his coat. “It’s going down.”

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes. Demons. What on earth could you do with them?

* * *

Eviletta Badrina Naughtina Balaclava Frinchester, formerly known as Draconara Eloise Raven Blinchester and never, _ever_ known as Susan unless under extreme duress, was having a bad day. She had lots of bad days, if the truth were known. Life was hard when people wouldn’t leave you in peace to carry out your evil deeds and secret missions. It was even harder when those people made you go to school instead.

School. Who needed school? Would school ever teach you really important stuff, like how to walk around in your druid’s robes without tripping over? No.  What was more, school was always full of people that Eviletta didn’t like very much. Worse still, some of those people were cheerleaders.

Even worse? Some of those cheerleaders were Mary Beth.

Forget fire, brimstone and eternal torment. Mary Beth was what Eviletta’s nightmares were made of. That girl could shred her self esteem with one carefully manicured finger, each and every time she felt like it and people like her ‘felt like it’ an awful lot. She just hoped against hope that the secret weapon Lucifer had given her really would do everything he said. The words that would destroy a bully – they hadn’t sounded like much but then, what did she know? Nothing compared to the prince of darkness.

Besides, if he gave her dud advice he knew she wouldn’t be back to help him out later as agreed and he didn’t seem the type to spend his afternoons categorising racy novels for evil purposes. Nope, that was something he needed his hell scouts for – a group of highly trained evil doers who knew exactly how to utilise badly written erotica for the purpose of general badness, whatever that may be.

Come to think of it, what sort of evil purpose _did_ you use badly written racy novels for? Except making millions and promoting to idea of whipping your girlfriend to masses, of course.

Mary Beth was in her usual spot when Eviletta finally arrived at school. True to form, the cheerleader’s ‘usual spot’ was draped against Eviletta’s locker, blocking any kind of access to her books for her next lesson, which made things a little difficult.

Mary Beth enjoyed making people’s lives difficult. One day, Eviletta predicted, she would become a health and safety officer in order to really make the most of her natural gifts in that area. Hopefully one in charge of the mud pits in the eighth circle of hell.

“Hello there, freak.”

Oh yes, Mary Beth was also extremely original and witty too. Sometimes she even gave the impression that she’d thumbed through a thesaurus once or twice, just to find a brand new way to say “I hate you” to everyone who had upset her that particular week. It amazed Eviletta how a creature of so few brain cells could terrorise so many people in so many ways. It didn’t make much sense to her – until she remembered the existence of such creatures as the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Badly designed moronic beings had, it seemed, been terrorising perfectly nice beings like herself since the dawn of time. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Eviletta shuffled to a stop in front of the locker she could never use without an entire minefield of hassle and smiled sweetly.

“Hello Mary Beth. Can you move?”

Mary Beth exchanged a glance with her companion and then laughed in Eviletta’s face.

Excellent. She’d been hoping that might happen.

Clearing her throat, she took a step back. The cheerleader popped her bubblegum and raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What?”

Well, there was nothing else for it. Time to say the words and hope really hard that Lucifer had thought to give her a nice, interesting spell like spontaneous human combustion, rather than something silly like eternal damnation (revenge was no FUN if you didn’t get to watch).

“Ahem. Mary Beth, you are not a very good person. In fact, you are a mean girl. I think you should be nicer to people in future.”

Mary Beth blinked at her a few times. Then she looked as if she might cry a little. Then she went straight back to looking like she might slug Eviletta across the face. Disappointingly, she made no move whatsoever to spontaneously combust.

“What are you on about?”

Eviletta smiled. She wasn’t quite sure when the spell would kick in, but Lucifer had given her those words to say in that order and surely they had to do _something_.

Moments passed.

Nothing happened.

She felt her smile falter slightly: surely Lucifer had meant that those words were a spell? Some sort of horrible, punishing spell? Otherwise they were just stupid words that would never do any good at all. What the heaven kind of use was that?

“Seriously, freak. What?”

Eviletta’s smile sank to somewhere around her lopsided pentagram belt buckle. Oh no. Words. He’d given her words. Worse than that, he’d… he’d actually suggested, in a really roundabout way, talking to Mary Beth about her actions. Like her _mum_ did. The prince of darkness was no better at dealing with high school bullies than her own mother!

It was a sobering thought.

With a loud ‘pop’ of gum, the cheerleader stretched and mewled. “Whatever. Locker’s all yours. Weirdo.”

It hadn’t worked.

It hadn’t worked one little bit.

Eviletta turned away, stomping back towards the gym and the quickest way out of school. Oh boy was Lucifer going to get it when she finally got hold of him. All that work, for some lousy words? Well he could stack his Twilight books himself, if that was how their relationship was going to be from now on. She certainly didn’t care one little tiny jot.

At the other end of the corridor, Mary Beth was mulling over Susan’s choice of words. Not in an attack of conscience, mind you. In order to locate one’s conscience, it is usually necessary to find one’s brain first and Mary Beth had never bothered. Rather, she was becoming aware of a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach with each letter she turned over.

_You’re not a very good person, Mary Beth_

Whatever. As if she cared what that velvet clad, incense smoking little doofus thought of her.

_You’re a mean girl._

Yes. Yes she was. What was more, she didn’t care. She made a good mean girl. A better mean girl than Susan did, anyway. Who knew what that little crazy was trying to be.

_I think you should be nicer to people in future._

Yeah? Well that was just dandy, wasn’t it? People. Who cared about being _nice_ to people? Not her.

It was just a bunch of stupid words. They couldn’t hurt her.

Smirking, Mary Beth picked up her pompoms and sashayed her way toward her next lesson, silently wondering what on earth had possessed that little weirdo’s speech. Whatever, a quick round of tormenting her later on ought to set the world back to rights, she was sure of that.

It was at this point, exactly six hundred and sixty six seconds since the words were uttered, that something rather strange happened.

“I can smell burning.” Said Mary Beth.

And then her arse fell off.

* * *

The man in the white suit paid no heed whatsoever to the two men in the middle of what looked like an explosion of random groceries. They were both fixing him with the sort of glower a courageous small, fluffy mammal might give a snake in the vain hope of scaring it off, which would have been rather disconcerting, were it not coming from people who already looked like they had been in a fight with a bag of lettuce and lost.

Nonchalantly, the man in the white suit continued through the aisle, picking up a couple of intact jars of honey and putting them in his shopping cart, whistling the bridge from ‘highway to hell’ as he went.

His sunglasses disguised his expression but even so, Dean could see no sign of acknowledgement toward either of them. Beside him, he could feel the intensity of Cas's gaze over his shoulder. The Angel's hand came to rest beside his on the handlebar of the shopping cart, as if pre-empting Dean's move to attack with it.

He wasn't planning to attack with it. He wasn't planning to do anything at all. He just stood there, frozen, unable to do anything but stare down the barrel of what looked like a very, very big gun.

Just, no.

He was in the cage.

He _knew_ he was in the cage. Knew that almost better than anyone. He wasn’t here, he _couldn’t_ be here.

It could be anyone. Anyone at all. Lucifer didn't have a new vessel as far as he knew. There wasn't exactly a law against wearing all white suits anyway. There probably should have been, but that was a whole other argument for a whole other time. The point was, he really did know, deep down, that there was no reason to suspect that there was anything evil about this man at all.

But somehow, the chilly certainty of who he was staring at didn’t leave him. What on earth was Lucifer doing shopping for groceries? Was it just a normal bloke? Could he just be paranoid? He was breathing faster now, as if he’d just run the length of the building, from the milk aisle to the checkouts and back.

He had to do something, he couldn’t just let Lucifer walk past him and walk away, could he?

Common sense told him that that was _exactly_ what he should do. Let this guy, whoever he was, just walk on by and then get back to the bunker and put together a real plan of action. One that involved big-assed guns and enough warding to banish the bastard to the other side of the multiverse. Even if it was… _him_ , there wasn’t any sort of sign that he was doing anything urgent or diabolical, other than buying groceries.

Just like _he_ was supposed to be doing.

Oh crap, the _groceries_. It suddenly occurred to Dean that his day was about to get even worse if one of the grocery staff came wandering down the aisle in search of honey and found Armageddon. No, the best course of action was undoubtedly to leave. He would have walked out of there on the spot if only that hadn’t involved walking straight past _him_.

It was getting hard to breathe at all. The edges of his vision were starting to go dark and for one, horrendous moment he thought he was going to be sick.

“Cas.” He whispered. “Cas, we…”

He didn’t need to say anything else, he didn’t need to because all of a sudden there was a hand on his shoulder and the weight of the shopping cart was gone from beneath his grip.

Sunlight. Bright, bright sunlight and fresh air and _outside_. He let out a breath, a proper breath at last and stumbled, steadied quickly by the warm body beside his own.

It couldn’t have been him. He was shaken up by the M&M monster, that was all. Some guy just had a horrible taste in clothes and a penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors. It didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything.

“ _Dean?”_

There was something in the Angel’s voice that told Dean that this wasn’t the first time he’d called it. He forced himself to nod.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay Cas.”

It was a pretty poor lie but it did the trick, more or less. The Angel stayed silent as he steadied his breathing and tried to calm his racing heart. “I just thought for a second… but it wasn’t.”

He waited for Cas to speak, to confirm that he was being ridiculous, to tell him that Lucifer was in the cage and could not possibly be terrorising a grocery store. He waited for Cas to tell him that he was being foolish and stupid and that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

He waited for Cas to stop clutching his arm tightly enough to bruise and to say _anything_ at all.

Shaking his head violently, Dean became dimly aware of an annoying buzzing sound coming from somewhere about his person. He knew dimly in the back of his mind that there was something he should do about that but it didn’t seem important at that precise moment.

He felt Cas’s hand reaching into his jacket and then voices. His phone, right, yes, that was the thing. Cas was hastily dispatching whoever was on the line whilst he occupied himself with the difficult task of not keeling over. At least he didn’t think he was going to be sick any more.

“Dean?”

He nodded again, not quite sure what he could say to put the Angel’s mind at ease.

“Dean…I… I think they just meant that…that Aziraphale’s a blond.”

The hunter blinked in confusion, grasping at Castiel’s words in an effort to understand what on earth he meant.

“I know you’re shaken, Dean, but… ‘Angel of darkness’ couldn’t have meant what you think it means. It’s a poor translation, maybe, to distinguish between two angels.”

It seemed a pretty flimsy explanation, but Dean was willing to take anything he could get right now and hold onto it for dear life.

“And the suit?”

Cas frowned in confusion. “It was a little unusual, perhaps, but I don’t see that it…”

“Cas, when I saw him… when I saw Lucifer as Sam, that’s what he was wearing, okay? You can’t tell me it’s some kind of crazy coincidence.”

“Dean, it most likely _is_ a crazy coincidence, as you put it. Lucifer cannot escape the cage. I will not let him harm you _or_ Sam.”

He wasn’t relaxing his grip on his arm though, Dean noticed. Wasn’t quite confident enough that there was no immediate danger to them to step away from him or suggest they go back in to buy the damn food they came for in the first place.

“I want to check that guy out” he said at last. “To be sure, you know.” When the Angel responded with a look that was half way between a plea and an admonishment, he turned his own stare straight back onto him. “There was something weird about that guy, Cas.”

The Angel sighed. “Fine, but we go back to the bunker first. Discuss this with the others.”

It sounded a good enough plan. Now he just needed his legs to stop shaking for long enough to drive.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's late! I hope you enjoyed chapter 11. Crowley and Az say that chapter 12 is much better, so you should definitely pop back and read it.


	12. Thursday 3pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12, in which Crowley reads a bedtime story.

**Chapter 12**

"Gosh, your little friends certainly do live in some rather nice places, don't they?"

Aziraphale stared up at the ornate wrought iron gates that finished a wonderfully smooth granite driveway, littered with the sort of cars that the Angel guessed were probably quite expensive. That is, they were a spectacularly hideous shade of yellow, the wheels were all shiny and they were a funny shape. Crowley would have liked them a lot. That usually meant ‘expensive’, in his rather limited experience.

"Of course" Gabriel smirked, "you can always count on good old-fashioned psychics to have good taste. After all, they know which looks are going to be consigned to pattern hell after the event and what the new season is going to be about three years in advance."

The angel nodded, deducting that this was the most likely explanation for his companion’s moose-patterned shirt. At least he hoped so, if it was in fact Gabriel’s best attempt at first date clothing, someone needed to have a word.

He glanced around him, appreciating the various topiaries that lined the drive. He rather liked topiaries, even if Crowley had cut all of his into rather rude shapes at one time or another. Frowning, Aziraphale tucked that though away in a mental box marked “reasons not to be friends with Crowley any more” and pressed his palm firmly against the intercom button. _Don’t think about Crowley._ He hissed under his breath. _Just get on with the mission._

The iron gates swung open with an ominous creaking noise which Aziraphale was sure such well-made and generously oiled gates shouldn’t make. Gabriel shrugged his shoulders and pushed his sunglasses back into place. “you coming?”

Aziraphale shrugged and followed the other Angel up the driveway and toward a very impressive looking door, complete with an art-deco, wrought iron door knocker. He couldn’t help being rather impressed that someone had managed to fake one so well.

"Authentic." Gabriel cut across his thoughts, grinning. "A gift from my good self, actually."

"An antique? Very nice."

The other Angel snorted. "No, not an antique. Just a very, very long lasting friendship."

He raised a hand to the heavy iron ring and knocked three times. They waited.

And waited.

"That's funny," Gabriel frowned. "It's not as if she wouldn't know we're coming."

The eerie quiet of the garden was suddenly torn in two as an extremely noisy car pulled up and onto the drive behind them. This one was even fancier than the rest, Aziraphale realised. He knew it was, because it was the most horrendously ugly car he had ever clapped eyes on. Plus it was yellow and had go faster stripes on it. Probably the sort of thing Crowley would fancy if he ever upgraded the Bentley.

Thinking of Crowley made his chest feel horribly uncomfortable, however, so he squashed his thoughts down firmly and focused on the job at hand. He could bet that Crowley wasn't thinking about him back. Crowley was probably thinking about...evil things. Because Crowley was Lord of Hell and the sooner Aziraphale stopped forgetting that and pining over the damned fellow, the better.

Pining in the sense that one casual acquaintance would often pine for another, of course. Not that awful noisy pining the Winchester boy did for Castiel whenever the Angel had flown off somewhere unexpectedly. Despite prayers being a fairly direct message to the recipient most of the time, there had been too many occasions when the whole of heaven had picked up on what was going on there. The boy needed to learn to pray a bit more quietly. Aziraphale made a mental note to big it up with him someday quite soon, before there was another ‘honey bee’ incident.

For now, however, he had other matters to attend to.

The yellow monstrosity ground to a halt and a young man climbed out of the driver's side door, grabbing a bag of groceries as he went.

"Oh, hello there."

Aziraphale tried to place the accent, then found that he couldn't. It was the most English accent he had ever heard, meaning that it was an approximation of an English accent by a person (likely American, given their location) who had never actually been to England but had watched a lot of BBC America and sort of gone from there.

"Hello, my dear chap. We're here to see-"

"My grandmother, yes."

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "I say." he ventured, "are you a psychic too, young man?"

The man shrugged his shoulders under his well-tailored suit jacket. "No, she just mentioned you were coming before she went down for her nap but said not to worry, as I'd be back in time to let you both in. You're the Angel Aziraphale, yes?"

Aziraphale nodded. "And you are?"

"Lucifer." he didn't miss the obvious flinch the Angel gave. "Yeah, I know, it's not ideal. Mum was going through her Satanist phase at the time."

"Oh, I see. What happened?"

"Gabe here showed up and told her that the citizens of hell were a bunch of dicks, then blew up our fountain to impress her." he shrugged again. "She's worshipped the Angels instead ever since."

Aziraphale shot a questioning glance at Gabriel, who seemed to be doing his very best to look in any direction but at the two on them.

"Well, you’d best come in." Lucifer continued. "I'll bring down some of that tea that Granny said you'd like."

 

He unlocked the door and showed them through to a grand living room before departing in the direction of the kitchen. Aziraphale took the opportunity to have a rifle through the old lady's book collection whilst Gabriel made himself comfortable on the better of the two sofas.

"So, this lady supplied you the prophecies for your little plan?" he asked, running his finger down the spine of a first edition of the 1931 Encyclopaedia Brittanica. "Didn't she ask you what they were for?"

"She did. I told her."

Aziraphale was thankful for having the presence of mind not to drop an extremely heavy book on his own foot.

"I…I see, and…. did she approve?"

Gabriel grinned, "she asked why such a good looking and charming man like me would have to resort to such lengths. I was very flattered."

This time it was Aziraphale's turn to give a snort of derision. "Really?"

"Yes, Aziraphale, really. I promised I'd pop over to see her. She didn't want any other payment."

The whole thing struck Aziraphale as rather sweet, if a little strange. Consulting an elderly psychic in order to trick somebody into thinking they could predict the future seemed a little bit of an odd thing to do. Add to that the fact that Crowley and he had accidentally gate crashed the whole thing (an eventuality that the psychic in question had apparently foreseen, hence the prophecies for their personal circumstances) and sent the plan awry, it did beg a few questions.

"Was all this really necessary, Gabriel?"

The other Angel seemed to think about this for a moment, before replying carefully..

"I think it's important to make some effort, if that's what you mean. People expect a certain level of elaboration and trickery and to not provide it..."

"Would sort of look like you weren't trying?"

The trickster nodded. "Exactly. I just want it to be obvious that I put a lot of thought into it."

"And if he kills you for it?"

Gabriel smiled wanly. "Hopefully it won't come to that."

Thankfully, Lucifer reappeared shortly afterwards with the tea and the news that Granny was just on her way downstairs and would be with them shortly. Gabriel toyed with the ribbon on the box of chocolates he knew she knew he’d brought her and stretched. “Relax, Az. You’ll like Cecelia.”

Aziraphale huffed. He wasn’t particularly sure that he _did_ like people who messed with his breakfast and encouraged Gabriel in his mischief, but it seemed a bit rude to say so when he’d already accepted tea and biscuits.

There was a creak from the hallway, the sound of slippered feet making their way ever so carefully down the final few stairs and into the living room. Gabriel’s face broke into a grin.

“Cecilia!”

“My dearest Gabriel.”

Frail as she was, the old woman still managed to wrap the Angel in a bone crushing hug by way of greeting. She didn’t really look the type to wreak havoc in the name of love, but what did he know about it? He’d never considered love to involve dodgy predictions, kidnapping and using Lucifer’s doppleganger as bait until today. He wasn’t entirely sure he did _now_.

“There is more to love than you might think, Angel Aziraphale.”

He jumped as Cecelia addressed him. Rule one, don’t think too loudly in front of the psychics, he needed to remember that.

“My apologies, Ma’am.”

She and Gabriel broke apart, still beaming at each other. Aziraphale felt a pang in his chest and sighed. She was right, love was a complicated beast indeed. Aziraphale, as a rule tried to avoid complicated. Unless of course it was a complicated relationship with a fallen angel that he wasn’t even supposed to have been speaking to for an eternity, let alone dining at the Ritz. He missed Crowley right then. Missed him like a wing, sometimes.

He knew he should go and apologise, but some chronically stubborn part of him kept insisting that maybe Crowley should apologise to him first. Maybe they should just both apologise to each other and then…

..and then what?

Aziraphale didn’t know. He didn’t know and he hated not knowing things. Hated feeling stupid or foolish or ignorant. He felt like all of those things in front of Crowley, sometimes.

“You could call him here, Angel.” Cecelia offered, her eyes still fixed on the spot where her tiny hand rested on Gabriel’s cheek. “We’ll be having afternoon tea soon.”

Afternoon tea and scones? Yes, he could lure Crowley in with scones, he was sure of that.

“We?” he queried.

“Gabriel, myself, Lucifer and my other granddaughter. We’ll send you some up though. I do hope Gabriel thanked you properly for offering to babysit whilst we make sure the rest of our cunning plan doesn’t go awry.”

Aziraphale nearly choked on his tea. “ _Babysit?_ Gabriel, you said you needed help with something _important!”_

“It is important. My four year old great-grand daughter. She’s a bit poorly” Cecilia paused meaningfully and Aziraphale found himself immediately promising to go up and cheer her up as a thank you for the scones. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing. Funny, he hadn’t been planning to offer to help, the thought had just sort of… suggested itself whilst he wasn’t looking.

Aziraphale made the eminently sensible decision to avoid annoying Cecelia if at all possible in the near future.

“In fact, I’m sure she would love a story right about now.”

The Angel shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware that his cheeks were burning with embarrassment. Awkwardly, he got to his feet and ambled his way to the door.

“It’s the third floor, Angel. Second door on the left.”

He nodded mutely, considering it the safest option and began his long trudge up the stairs. So this was his starring role in proceedings, was it? The part that Gabriel needed Aziraphale to provide? A spot of sick child healing and then a not-quite-bedtime story? Aziraphale felt rather stung, as if his CEO had just marched into his office and assigned him the tea round for a month. He’d rather been hoping for something a little more exciting.

Crowley would have found him something more exciting to do.

Crowley would probably have decided to create some chaos all by himself, if only to grin when Aziraphale pretended to despair but secretly rather enjoyed the task of setting everything back to rights.

_Crowley_ would drag him into all sorts of wonderful sort of sinful adventures and make him feel like he was…

“Az?”

The Angel wheeled around, coming face to face (or, more accurately, face to knee) with a familiar sharp suit and knowing smirk that lingered even whilst its owner’s face was contorted in surprise. Out of apparently rather thin air, Crowley had dropped in and it took all of Aziraphale’s self control to manage not to look pleased about it.

“Crowley! What are you doing here?”

The demon shifted uncomfortably from his new perch on the bannister rail, as if he’d been expecting a different response altogether. “You were calling me. I thought you might be in trouble”

He deliberately turned his attention to the nearest item that wasn’t Aziraphale and started examining it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world and not some overly gaudy bottle of perfume that someone had left just lying around on the stairs for some reason.

“Gosh, was I?”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale made himself a mental note not to think so loud in future. If Crowley had heard him thinking his name half way across town, who knows what else he might have heard. He’d have asked him, if only he’d stop _staring_ at him like that. Suddenly, the question was right there on his lips, quite unbidden. He swallowed it back as best he could and righted himself just in time to hear Crowley say,

“Yes, Aziraphale.”

If Aziraphale held with such nonsense, which he didn’t, he would have sworn his cheeks were burning. Now was surely his cue to lie – to tell the demon that he was quite mistaken and that Aziraphale didn’t need him one little bit. Unfortunately, the part of his brain which apparently controlled speech had rather different ideas.

“I missed you.”

Crowley stared at him. “Az, you’ve been gone for 72 minutes.”

The Angel stared back. “And you, Crow, have been counting them.”

“Yes Angel. I suppose I have.”

Their eyes locked, both thrusting their hands deep into their respective pockets in a show of nonchalance that neither really felt.

“It was a bit boring without you, actually.”

Crowley nodded. “It was far too… well, it was…”

“Far too what, Crowley?”

“It was far too… oh for hell’s sake, Aziraphale. It would have been better if you’d been in it, alright? Is that what you want me to say? Everything’s better with you in it, even when you’re acting like the uptight, annoying, crazy, ridiculous git that you are.”

As if to prove his point, Crowley firmly crossed his arms and glared.

Aziraphale tried, he really did, to stop the grin that slowly enveloped his face. “So. This means we’re back on for breakfast, tomorrow?”

“Surely not the Ritz?”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “No, probably not the Ritz.”

“Fortnum and Mason, perhaps?”

“I think that’s a splendid idea, don’t you?”

“Diabolical indeed.”

“Good. That’s sorted then. Now, come along, dearest, I have Angel work to be doing and you’re going to come and help.”

Perhaps Crowley really had been missing him, Aziraphale thought. Because the King of Hell didn’t utter a single syllable of protest. Instead, Aziraphale felt the strange sensation of calloused fingers twisting between his. He swallowed.

Then knocked at Amelie Mae’s bedroom door three times.

* * *

When Castiel finally arrived back at the bunker with Dean, he could hardly hide his relief that only Sam was there to greet them. Now was not a good time for Crowley. Heck, now was not a good time in general.

Of course, there was nothing particularly suspicious about the two of them returned from the grocery store, aside from the fact that they had no groceries whatsoever. Any bystander would probably have bought their story about everything being fine. But Cas knew better, could see - no, could _feel_ the waves of anxiety coming off Dean like a radio beacon. The last thing he needed was Crowley or Aziraphale pointing it out.

A few years ago he would have pointed it out too but even if he wasn't quite an expert at human thoughts and feelings yet, he knew well enough that Dean wanted him very much not to mention anything about it.

The hunter's right hand still lay in his own, as it had most of the journey. A sudden stop for the van in front had been the culprit, Dean slamming on the brakes and turning paler than he had any right to be. He hadn't known what to say. He hadn't known to put his hand on Dean's either, but some part of him had and when the hunter had clutched so hard at his fingers that he would have sworn that only his lingering grace was stopping them from breaking, he knew he'd somehow done the right thing.

There was no use in trying to talk about it. The ‘I don't want to discuss this any further’ vibes were out in force and the silence was stifling. Somehow he didn't think that turning the radio back on would help matters, even if he'd had a hand free to do it.

Sam was leaning against the door when they finally reached him, holding a mug of something that was steaming into the cooling air, a look of relief on his face.

"Hey! Hey, what happened to you two?" he paused, looking at their tightly entangled but otherwise empty hands. "Where's lunch?"

Cas didn't venture an explanation. Dean mumbled something unintelligible.

"What, the monster took your groceries for _real_?”

He grinned at his brother, obviously hoping that he might have raised at least a small smile. The only hint Cas could see of any recognition of the humour at all was a miniscule loosening of Dean's grip on him.

"I thought I saw Lucifer in the grocery store."

Now it was Sam's turn to pale. "You couldn't have."

"I know I couldn't have, okay?" The both flinched as Dean raised his voice. "He was wearing a God damn white suit and sunglasses indoors." Dean snapped. "He showed up right after that Demon thing and he was buying loads of raw meat. What would you have done?"

Sam looked to the Angel, who tried to convey a warning not to say anything through his face. It didn't really work, though it did leave Sam wondering if Castiel was about to sneeze.

"I'd have got the hell out of there." he said at last. "Which is hopefully what you guys did too, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, Cas zapped up out of there. Sammy, that damn prophecy talks about the M&Ms and the demon and the angel of darkness being in the supermarket. You don't think...?"

Sam shook his head. "We need to get to the bottom of this prophecy crap and we need to do it soon. Someone is up to something or else someone really is trying to warn us." he frowned, "but why the hell would they try to warn Crowley about cooked tomatoes, or me about wearing the right jeans? It doesn't make any sense."

"We need Crowley and Az for this." Dean cast a quick glance around as if noticing their absence for the first time. "Where is Crowley, anyway?"

Sam shrugged. "He didn't say. Oh, but I did install a GPS tracker on his phone when he wasn't looking, so we can easily find out."

Dean's expression was one of incredulity. "When he wasn't looking? When, exactly, was the King of Hell not looking?"

Sam smirked. "When his favourite programme came on the TV, of course."

Dean gave an exasperated sigh. Sam's grin was cut off by a sharp pain that felt oddly like having his hair pulled by an invisible force. "Owww!"

Dean frowned "His favourite programme is 'Ow'? What the hell is 'Ow'?"

Sam scowled, rubbing his scalp. Apparently Crowley really was thorough about his threats. "Doesn't matter. You stay there, I'll find him."

He turned on his heel and headed back inside to the library to fetch his laptop, leaving Dean and Castiel to wait and make themselves as comfy as they could, bearing in mind the threat of Armageddon was suddenly hanging over them after a perfectly innocuous trip to the grocery store.

“Dean? Dean, you can let go now.” Cas ventured, trying to wriggle his numbing fingers. It wasn’t that holding hands with Dean was unpleasant in principle, more the growing worry that he might never regain full use of his fingers if the blood supply didn’t return soon.

Dean glanced down at their joined hands, as if seeing them for the first time. Scowling and tugging his fingers firmly away, he turned his attention back to his own phone, leaving Cas to nurse his not quite bruised hand in silence.

"No messages." he reported to no one in particular. "Aziraphale might call if he finds anything. Unless he's too busy sulking over Crowley."

"It's a lover's tiff." Sam's voice carried in from the next room. Moments later he reappeared, carrying his laptop and a stack of books. "You should have heard the way Crowley was going on about him. If I didn't know any better, I'd say those two had a thing."

Dean snorted. "Who would have a thing with those two? Crowley's the king of hell, evil, AND an annoying Dick and Aziraphale is some crazy Angel who spends way too much time hanging around with humans for his own good. The guy deserves better than Crowley though."

He didn’t see Cas’s expression as he turned away to start rifling through the bare kitchen cupboards in the hopes of finding something to eat that hadn’t just had a close encounter with the grocery store floor. He wasn’t all that successful, unless you considered spaghetti hoops an acceptable substitute for real food.

All the while, Cas stared after him. A crazy angel who spent way too much time hanging around humans? It was just an offhand remark, he told himself firmly. The fact that he was even still turning it over and over in his mind was borderline pathetic. Especially when you factored in that there was a real emergency going on. One which had had his hunter a dead weight in his arms just an hour previously.

He was standing now. And eating, if that was what he was planning to do once he had finished jimmying that can open with his hunting knife. Cas knew enough about humans to know that that was a good sign. He should be pleased. He _was_ pleased, it was just…

He almost wished that Dean had simply turned in for a lie down or something. Something to give him enough time to find out if any of the other Angels he could still rely on had heard any news from the cage. Time to come up with some sort of plan that wouldn’t involve Dean running at the problem and doing his level best to get himself hurt.

Or worse.

The thought made his stomach feel icy – another feeling he knew should have stopped by now. Perhaps he was still more human than he realised. It was a frightening thought.

“Got him!” a triumphant shout from the sofa broke his train of thought and he turned just in time to see Sam punch the air in celebration.

“He’s local, too. About 20 miles away.”

There was the sound of hurried typing as Sam turned his attentions to the address. “A house of the outskirts of a town. Looks like the owner is a Mrs Cecilia Black. Lives there with her grandson…”

Sam paused, the colour slowly draining from his face.

“Her grandson, Lucifer.”

The laptop shut with a soft click. “It’s a coincidence, right?” Sam’s tone was faintly pleading. “I mean, why would you use that name? Your vessel would have a name and there’s no point in blowing your cover like that. He’s probably just some regular guy” He frowned, “although, how the hell does he know Crowley?”

From the kitchen, there was a noise that shouted suspiciously like a can of spaghetti hoops being viciously stabbed.

“Dammit Sam, If he’s been playing us, again…”

Sam was already reaching for his coat. “If he is, or he isn’t, it’s best to be sure, don’t you think?”

Castiel’s heart sank. Part of him desperately wanted to suggest staying here and discussing things for a bit longer. Until he’d at least had the chance to talk to Aziraphale.

The other Angel _knew_ Crowley. Heck, he adored him, much as he wasn’t allowed to. He would know if Crowley were up to something.

A horrible thought dug its claws into his chest. Perhaps Aziraphale did know. Perhaps he had fallen for Crowley quite literally.

He checked his Angel blade was safely on his person before they left.

* * *

"And then Elmer told the other elephants where they could shove their offer of friendship and moved to a nicer jungle, where he could make much better friends who weren't a shallow bunch of utter bastards. The End."

From within her star-encrusted pillow fort, little Amelie Mae frowned, chewing daintily on her fingers as she thought this through. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her new babysitter, but something seemed a little strange. Story time had been subtly different this afternoon and she was starting to put her finger on why.

”Uncle Coley.” She said at last “that’s not the end.”

The man in the smart suit rolled his eyes at his friend in the corner. “Yes it is, little child. See, no more pages. Time to sleep. Good night, don’t mind the monsters under the bed”

They’d already discussed how the _really_ bad monsters lived in the wardrobe and enjoyed eviscerating small children. Amelie Mae had never heard the word ‘eviscerated’ before. She loved learning new words and that afternoon alone had added ‘abomination’, ‘apocalypse’ and ‘television evangelist’ to her rapidly expanding vocabulary. Amelie Mae was starting to feel certain that uncle Crowley was the coolest person she had ever met.

“But Uncle Coley. Elmer _wants_ to be friends with the other elephants.”

“Don’t be ridiculous child. The only reason that you’d disguise yourself to integrate with a group of your peers that have terrorised you for years is so you can wreak horrific revenge on the herdfrom within. Or smite them. Now, go to sleep.”

Amelie Mae considered this. “What’s smiting?”

“It’s something that I’ll show you tomorrow if you go to sleep _right now.”_ The little girl obeyed immediately, her ruse undermined only by the sneaky peek she stole from out of one eye at the two hastily retreating figures.

“Uncle Coley?”

She was sure that nobody normal ever did sighs as big as Uncle Crowley, he looked as though his sigh was so huge it took all his effort just to get it out.

“Yes?”

“Can I have another story?”

Not for the first time, she wondered why all of the nice people wanted to hang around with boring old daddy Lucifer. Daddy didn’t know any stories that were _nearly_ as good as Uncle Crowley’s. The King of Hell shot a pleading look at Aziraphale, who tried his very best not to laugh.

“Oh go on, just one more. We need to keep the old lady on side, remember?”

Crowley remembered only too well. Tomatoes on your full English weren’t something to forgive and forget easily.

“Fine. _One_ more story, but then you have to go to sleep.”

The little girl nodded eagerly. “Do the Gruffalo next. And make sure you do all of the voices _properly.”_

Rather wisely, the Angel took that as his cue to sneak out of the room and go in search of Lucifer. With his grandmother otherwise occupied, _someone_ around here needed to make a concerted effort to clean of the chaos the old lady had wrought. He expected the grandson was his best chance of finding out the rest of the plan before anything really awful happened.

He left the room to the sound of a book being grudgingly opened and a happy cry of “I want to be the mouse.”

Poor Crowley. It ought to have been worrying how happy the little girl was with the babysitting skills of a fallen angel, but that was children for you.

He closed the door with a soft ‘click’ and made his way down the corridor to Lucifer’s bedroom. He really needed to have the deed poll conversation with that young man – nice young men simply didn’t go around calling themselves ‘Lucifer’ these days.

He finally found the young man in one of the easterly bedrooms, reclining on his four poster bed and engrossed in a book on demon lore. He cleared his throat and young Lucifer looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Hello Angel. What is it I can do for you?”

_Stop behaving so creepily like your namesake?_ Aziraphale was tempted to respond. Instead, he did his best to keep things cheery and civilised, as much as one can when dealing with committed Satanists.

“Oh, I was just wondering if you would mind awfully going over the plan, again. To make sure I understand properly, you know?”

The temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees as Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t aware I’d made you privy to the plan the first time.”

“Your grandmother did” Aziraphale lied smoothly. Gosh, that had been a good lie, Crowley would have been jolly proud. He blushed a little at the thought.

“Oh, right. Well then. Which part did you want to go back over?”

“The um… the all of it, actually, just to make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

Lucifer nodded, somewhat sceptically. “I see. Well, as you know, it all started with the bet.”

“Ah yes, the bet. Remind me again what the…”

“Are you _sure_ Granny told you any of this, Angel?”

A soft laugh came from the doorway and Aziraphale spun around to see 5 foot 6 of smirking Angel staring back at him. “Oh, Cecelia didn’t tell him any of it. But I think it’s only fair to tell him now.”

Lucifer shrugged and went back to his book amidst a torrent of get out of my room vibes that neither Aziraphale nor Gabriel noticed.

“I ran into my dear Moose yesterday morning, and we had a little chat.”

Aziraphale frowned. “He didn’t mention anything about-“

“That is because he doesn’t remember anything about it. At least not yet. He will, when the time is right.”

“And when do you suppose that might be, dear Gabriel.” He folded his arms and turned to glare at the archangel. Gabriel simply shrugged and smiled.

“Why, I’d have thought you’d have figured that bit out by now, dear Angel. It will be the right time once I _win_.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's bedtime stories are available to purchase from no good retailers, now. (sadly) Hope you all enjoyed chapter 12 - stay tuned for more epic silliness next week.


	13. Thursday 4pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're into the home strait, everyone. By my reckoning it's three chapters to go. *sob sob sob*. Hope you all enjoy my latest wafflings xxx

Despite his best efforts to distract his companions into stopping for dinner, stopping for gas or stopping for _anything_ so that he’d have the chance to call on someone for assistance, it was all too short a while before Castiel found himself standing on an immaculate and grand driveway, wedged between two hunters and wondering how on earth Lucifer had:

a)    Escaped the cage

b)    Acquired quite so many tacky looking motor vehicles

He had a horrible feeling he was going to find out the answer to at least one of those questions before the evening was through and that it was unlikely to be the latter.

But seriously, a Lotus Elise in banana yellow? That went somewhere beyond pure evil and into a space which was simply ‘very bad taste’. Any contraption that would have had Crowley wrinkling his nose and asking if it came in black was not one for the faint hearted.

The house itself seemed perfectly innocuous, in a creepy gothic sort of way. Perhaps they had all been a little too quick off the mark and were about to stumble in on some poor family’s dinner without invitation. That would be embarrassing. It would also be extremely preferable to being brutally slaughtered by the founder of hell, so he was somewhat more open to the idea than he otherwise might have been.

“I’m going to knock.” He muttered to the others at last, making his way over to an impressively grandiose front door. “We ought to be able to tell pretty quickly if this has all been a big misunderstanding.” He felt, rather than saw the change in Dean’s demeanour as the hunter raised both arms in a show of exasperation.

“Yeah, Cas? And what if Lucifer really is in there, huh? You going to just announce your presence and wait for him to crush you?”

“If Lucifer is in there” the Angel replied hotly, “he already knows we’re outside.”

He’d have been lying if he’d said that he didn’t feel a flicker of smug satisfaction in the moment that Dean Winchester shut his mouth and didn’t bother to reply. To their right, Sam simply looked at them both and sighed heavily.

“Right, are you going to knock, then? Or shall I?”

Cas raised a fist and pounded slowly and deliberately on the solid oak of the door. It was old, very old. It had seen its fair share of magic, too, by the feel of it. There was something about these old buildings that seemed to cling onto the aura that supernatural activity left behind, just a flicker, just a moment, but enough.

As if sensing his thoughts, the door swung open by itself, complete with a loud, ominous creaking noise. The hunters exchanged a glance.

“Right then, who wants to go first?”

* * *

“So, let me get this straight.” Aziraphale sat, head in hands on the edge of the bed, trying desperately to make sense of what he had just been told. "You had a bet with Sam Winchester that you could get his brother to stop 'dicking around' as you so charmingly put it, and finally tell Castiel that he's in love with him."

To his credit, Gabriel did at least manage to look _vaguely_ sheepish in the face of his crimes. Aziraphale huffed disapprovingly.

"And if you win, Sam Winchester has to go out on a date with you?"

A smirk and a nod told him he was rapidly getting the picture. Honestly. He would have said he expected better from the archangel but that would not even have been true anymore.

"My goodness, Gabriel, you have really outdone yourself this time. And how on earth was all of this supposed to work, may I ask?"

"The prophecies, of course." the other Angel gestured into the air, as if the whole thing were terribly obvious and Aziraphale intolerably stupid. "I was writing them, making out that it was Sam and he'd developed the second sight. Send them all on a couple of bonding adventures and then Hey! Presto!"

"Bonding adventures?" Aziraphale was incredulous, "Those Hell Scouts were yours? They were terrible! Fiendish! They were-"

"A bunch of teenage girls, and you would have made short work of them had you been able to concentrate properly. Anyway, your Crowley turning up threw the whole thing right off track, if you must know."

"Well I'm sure he's terribly sorry about that."

Gabriel, to his credit, managed to look impressed at his companion’s sudden mastery of sarcasm.

“Once he got the idea that Sam might be an actual prophet with actual prophecies, he stole the notebook to see if there was any news of the apocalypse in there. And of course there wasn’t, because the whole thing was completely made up.”

“By you.”

“Yes, by me. So I chucked a couple of little extras that Cecelia kindly came up with your way and hoped it would be enough to put you off investigating any further. Imagine my surprise when Crowley of all people decided to help the Winchesters rescue Sam.”

Aziraphale shoved his flicker of amusement aside with a firm hand. “You shouldn’t have done the tomato thing, I think you really pissed him off.”

“It was funny though, right?”

Aziraphale shot the other Angel the sort of glare that a heavenly being can only ever pick up by spending far, _far_ too much time in bad company.

“No, Gabriel, it was not. So what on earth was the purpose of the Hell Scouts?”

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. “Well, whilst the girls interrogated Sammy about his sexual preferences regarding Angels, Dean and my dear brother were supposed to be spending some quality time locked in a basement together. You can’t tell me that you think they’d last five minutes. They’d have been there longer than that if all your yelling hadn’t hurried proceedings up.”

Aziraphale huffed loudly and gestured for Gabriel to continue.

“Well, then there was plan B. Stick a monster in the middle of Deano’s grocery run and let the two of them get their rocks off splatting the thing.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me, what went wrong this time?”

Gabriel tailed off, gesturing into empty space as if the answers might become apparent. “I don’t know, exactly. Except that they left the grocery store in a real hurry and definitely not to go and make wild, passionate love to each other. Trust me, I’d know the instant the bet was won.”

“Because Sammy would remember everything and march up here to smack you one, you mean?”

“Something like that, yes.” Gabriel tugged a hand through his hair and sighed. “Except it’s not exactly _going_ according to plan. That’s why I need you here – to help me fix all this mess I’ve made.”

Aziraphale of course, immediately promised that he would do everything in his power to fix the mess the other angel had made and that he would make a start right after he’d finished his cream tea. It was his heavenly duty to assist an archangel in distress after all. And hey, if doing so meant he never, ever again had to be subjected to the unresolved sexual tension that pervaded every room Dean and Castiel ever walked into, that would simply be a bonus.

Lucifer, apparently grateful of an excuse to leave the room, told them both at that point that he was off to help Granny with the scones and would be ready for them shortly. Aziraphale briefly considered rescuing Crowley, though he was sure that Amelia Mae at least was enjoying proceedings. Safe in the knowledge that Crowley couldn’t see him, Aziraphale allowed the tiniest of evil grins to cross his features.

It disappeared in a flash at the sound of Lucifer’s scream.

* * *

Despite having had the chance to catch up on a good proportion of the horror genre’s recent offerings since moving into the bunker with Dean and Sam, Castiel was not able to catch himself before he called the words best known to every soon-to-be-dead protagonist of almost every slasher film ever made.

“Hello? Is there anybody there? Hello?”

He took a cautious step inside the door, one hand sneaking toward his Angel blade. “Hello?”

“Cas. Please. Stop ‘helloing’ the monsters” Dean snapped, following close behind.

The Angel bit back a retort and angled his blade into a better position to defend himself. He couldn’t sense anything untoward coming from inside the property but it wasn’t as if he was altogether fully functioning on the Angel scale any more. For all he knew, Lucifer could have snuck right up behind him and he wouldn’t have felt a thing. The thought made him shudder.

“What? What is it?”

Dean’s hand was on his shoulder before he could even begin to collect his thoughts. “I… nothing. It’s just a little cold in here.”

The last thing he needed was to accidentally freak Dean out any more. The hunter was still on edge, liable to snap and do something rash and ridiculous at any moment. Although at that precise moment he seemed more or less fixated on nothing more rash or ridiculous than rubbing his fingers in tiny circles on the Angel’s shoulder. It took all his will to suppress another shiver and keep his concentration on the task at hand.

Demons usually left a certain something in the air. Not a taste, exactly, but certainly something that was…lingering. A bad smell in the air, a feeling of foreboding and bad feeling.

There was nothing in the hallway but the smell of pine fresh and the waft of freshly baked something or other that Castiel couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it was tinged with jam. Looked like the interrupting dinner theory may have had some credence after all.

“Anything?” Sam asked, edging to the left to check behind the door. “Hello?” he raised his voice, “Hello? Anyone home?”

Cas felt Dean’s fingers clench in the material of his coat. “Would you _both_ just stop with the helloing?”

Moments later they all froze as a call came floating back down the stairs in answer. “Hello?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Er.. Hello! The door was open. We were looking for someone, actually. Sorry to barge in.”

Between the staircase railings, Cas thought he caught a glimpse of white fabric. _No. surely not._

“Maybe I can help?” The stairs creaked as the owner of the voice made his way down toward them. A very, very blond head of hair came in to view, quickly followed by a horribly familiar pair of sunglasses.

The young man bounded down the last couple of steps and extended his hand to Sam. “Gosh, where are my manners? My name is-”

By the time Cas had cried out “Dean! No!” it was already too late.

* * *

Back in the gaudy purple palace that Amelia Mae liked to call a “bed woom”, Crowley’s throat was beginning to ache.

“And the Gruffalo finally fell for the mouse’s incredibly unconvincing lie that he was, in fact, the scariest monster in the forest as he was, clearly, extremely gullible. And then the Gruffalo ate the mouse on principle, because nobody likes a smart arse. It gave him terrible indigestion. The end.” Crowley closed the book with a deliberate snap. “Well, that’s quite enough story for now. You wouldn’t want to have nightmares, would you?”

Amelia Mae thought about this for a moment. “I like nightmares. They’re fun.”

“No, they are not. They are full of demons and monsters which eat little girls, now go to sleep.”

Amelie Mae clutched at her cuddly monster and glared at him. Somewhere behind its poorly stitched eyes, the monster grinned too. As she’d told Crowley, her companion’s name was Mr Scary-Crap, and he was Amelia Mae’s best friend. (his name, however unfortunate, had sprung from a conversation with the girl’s estranged mother, who had complained tirelessly about Lucifer giving her daughter ‘scary crap’ to play with and had rather stuck)

“Granny says that the demons can’t hurt us.”

“Well,” Crowley began gently “I’m afraid that’s bollocks.”

Amelie Mae peered up at here from behind Mr Scary Crap. “Really?”

“Really.”

The little girl considered Crowley carefully, with all the esteemed logic that a five year old head could muster. “Mr Crowley?”

“Yes, little child?”

“READ ME ANOTHER STORY!”

For a moment, Crowley thought the ear splitting scream of terror that rang out down the halls had come from his own throat. Then, when he realised he hadn’t made a sound, his heart sank.

“You stay there sweetipops, Uncle Crowley’s just going to…er.. run toward the terrified screaming for a while, okay? Nothing to worry about, you just go back to sleep now.” He edged toward the door and then made a break for it in the vague direction the scream had come from.

Usually, he’d never have let himself live down the fact that he was running _toward_ the sound of terrified screaming. He was a demon, after all. He should either already be making the screaming _happen_ or be nonchalantly rifling through the latest issue of Cosmo whilst the sound drifted over him like sweet music.

Then again, most demons couldn’t narrow the source of the screaming down to a likely choice between precisely two people, one of which was their Angel.

A trap. Of course it was a trap. He saw it now and cursed himself for being such an idiot. A sudden compulsion to trust an old psychic arcanist and her Satanist son? Why on earth hadn’t he seen straight through it? He’d left an angel with them. An Angel which a couple of Satanists (who probably really fancied currying some favour with the underworld by enacting a sacrifice or two) would likely make short work of, if it came down to a fight.

“AZIRAPHALE?”

The scream cut off abruptly as if smothered. The little voice that Crowley was doing his level best to ignore told him that it was most likely coming from downstairs. Taking a deep breath, Crowley inwardly mocked himself for what he was about to attempt. Flinging himself down the stairwell to rescue an Angel from a pair of devil worshippers? If the Winchesters ever found out what he was up to, they would never let him live it down. Right then. He adjusted his coat and took a few steps back to run at the bannister.

“Crowley?”

With a quick cough and a splutter the king of hell straightened his coat as best he could before assuming his best approximation of a nonchalant expression. With an exaggerated yawn and a stretch, he leaned back to rest against the bannister as if he could not think of anything more relaxing.

“Ah, Angel, there you are.”

That was good, he congratulated himself. That was a lot cooler than throwing yourself at him in a fit of relief and begging him not to leave you again. That was bordering on cold. Freezing, in fact.

Aziraphale moved to the balcony and peered over the edge, obviously curious about something. “I was just chatting to Gabriel about the… did you hear all that screaming just now?”

“Nope!” Crowley declared cheerily, slipped his arm through Aziraphale’s. “Come on, let’s get finished up here and call it a day. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a night in.”

The Angel frowned at his friend’s sudden change of demeanour, “You know, I’m sure I heard screaming, are you sure you didn’t hear anything?”

The demon shrugged. “Don’t think so. You know what I did hear?”

“What?”

“A little voice telling me that those scones are almost ready. Come on.”

* * *

One moment Lucifer had been casually minding his own business on the stairs, the next he had somehow found himself crushed against the nearest wall with an awful lot of unfamiliar and rather solid man pushed up against him. He wouldn’t have minded all that much, except the man also had a knife. A knife which was currently pressed in a rather uncomfortable position against his throat.

At least the mystery man’s friends didn’t seem much keener on this turn of events than he did, if all their shouts of ‘stop’ and ‘Dean, no!’ were anything to go by. Somewhere over the roaring in his ears, Lucifer managed to make out the words “who you are” and tried desperately to query what on earth was going on. He didn’t get very far before the man’s knife made its advance up to his throat, effectively cutting off any more question.

“No no no no. Don’t you move. Don’t make a sound. Just answer the question” Hissed the man. Lucifer frowned as he pondered how on earth one would go about answering any questions at all without either making a noise of some sort or at least nodding his head. Apparently logic was not this fellow’s strongest suit.

“How am I supposed to answer the question if I’m not allowed to move my lips?” he asked tentatively. Apparently this annoyed the man, because he started to press a little harder. “OW OW OW! OKAY OKAY!”

“ _Dean_ ”

The shorter of the two other men had his hand on the first man’s arm now, gently tugging it away. “Stop it. He’s human. I’m sure of it, he’s just a human”

Lucifer wanted to shout everything ranging from “Well, duh!” to “Who the hell are you?” but settled somewhere in the middle with. “Yes. I live here. Please let go of me.”

To his immense surprise, the man in the checked shirt complied, stepping back toward his friend and untangling his vice-like grip from Lucifer’s lapels. Lucifer straightened himself back up and eyed the three of them warily.

“I think” he muttered, brushing himself off as best he could “we should discuss whatever murderous little urges you’ve brought round over tea and scones. I’ll go and fetch you all a cup, shall I?”

The three men exchanged mystified looks and Lucifer sighed heavily. “Look, you don’t have to drink it, okay? But I need a cup after all that rumpus and it’s rude not to offer it round.

If possible, the three expressions facing him grew even more bewildered at the mention of their friends. Lucifer sighed inwardly, Crowley had warned him that these three could be a bit… well… slow.

“Anyway, I think we got off on the wrong foot for a minute there.” He shot the first man a searching look and was rewarded with a look of mild embarrassment.  “Let’s try again.”

The tallest of the three cleared his throat. “I’m..er… I’m Sam. Please to meet you?”

Carefully intent on proving that at least one of them had good manners, Lucifer smiled broadly and extended his hand.

“Pleased to meet you Sam, my name is Lucifer and I’m-“

“ _Dean! No!”_

Not for the first time that day, or in fact for the first time in the previous five minutes, Lucifer found himself slammed back up against the wall. It was really starting to get rather tiresome.

He didn’t like to use his greatest weapon. It always seemed a bit like cheating, but hell, these three were getting on his last nerve.

“Help! Granny! Help!”


	14. Thursday 5:40pm

“That’s my grandson you’re attempting to garrotte, young man.”

The voice sliced effortlessly through the thick cloud of testosterone in the air with the practiced ease of one who had been putting naughty boys firmly in their place for almost a century. Lucifer almost shuddered in empathy for what was about to befall his unwelcome house guests.

For a man who had tackled demons, vampires, werewolves, leviathan and something approaching the entire works of whichever demonic scholar had ever bother to keep track, Dean was rather flummoxed by the sight of a ninety-something year old with a vicious looking kitchen utensil in hand. He dropped Lucifer quickly, snapping his head back to the kitchen doorway where an old lady stood with a rolling pin in her hand. Cecelia fixed him with the sort of glare that usually had her grandchildren supplanting themselves at her feet whilst promising to do the washing up for a decade.

“Lucifer, darling, I think the scones are ready. Off you hop.”

Her grandson scrambled to his feet and fled to the kitchen without a second glance. Scones, even ones made by Granny “jawbreaker” Cecelia, were likely to be vastly preferable and far less dangerous to what was probably coming to the men in the hallway and he didn’t much fancy hanging about to watch.

Cecelia turned back to face the three men standing in her hallway, fixing the middle one with a stern glare.

“Listen here, Winchester.” She snapped, “That is my grandson, you’ve just had your grubby little paws all over, so the best thing you can do right now is apologise before I get very, very angry indeed.” She didn’t need to tap the rolling pin into the palm of her hand for emphasis but did so regardless, relishing the way the three of them backed up towards the far wall with a wary expression in their eyes. “Look, I know his name’s a bit unfortunate, you three being what you are and all, but he can’t help that. My daughter was going through her little Satanist phase when she had him. He’s human and you’d better believe it.”

Dean mumbled an apology towards his shoes, which seemed to mollify her a little.

“Well, if you’re sorry, tea’s ready, so go on through and take yourselves a seat.”

And with that, Granny Cecelia turned on her slippered heel and marched off in the direction of the dining room. Or at least, she did the closest thing an arthritic pensioner could manage to a good march – a purposeful shuffle.

“So, we made a mistake.”

Cas’s voice cut through the clouds of Dean’s mortification, making him jump. “Best to eat the scones, make our apologies and leave, I think.”

It was as good a plan as any. Dean wasn’t in the mood to argue. That, plus he still hadn’t had any lunch. True, the only food on offer may have been baked by a possibly evil Satanist but it was food and he was absolutely starving. More than that, he absolutely had to get out of this hallway right now before he did something stupid.

The Dining Room was as good an escape route as any.

* * *

Of all of the cock ups, in all of the unfortunate events in all of heaven and hell, Gabriel had just had to walk into this one.

It was, of course, entirely his own fault.

This didn’t make it any better. In fact, it made it rather worse. No one likes feeling disappointed _and_ stupid at the same time.

Sighing heavily, Gabriel checked his watch and rearranged the ingredients for the spell back into their rightful place. One last roll of the dice it was, then. He just hoped it would be enough.

* * *

Back in the rather extravagant dining room, Sam drew up the chair nearest the door and surreptitiously rearranged the various weapons he was carrying to be on hand if he needed them in a hurry. Dean rather hoped he wouldn’t. Now that his encounter with Lucifer had been snatched from him, replaced by nothing more than a big misunderstanding and an awful lot of embarrassment, he just wanted to go home.

Eat the scone to be polite, then just go home, go to bed and leave this day a long, long way behind him.

He rather hoped his eagerness to leave was the real reason he snatched a scone from the plate as soon as the old lady brought them in. Sam would have ticked him off if he’d seen his appalling lack of table manners, he was sure.

Cecelia, on the other hand, seemed rather mollified by his enthusiasm over her baking.

“There now, isn’t that better? I’m sure the others will be down in a moment and we can sort out all this nonsense.”

He’d forgotten until then that they had come here on the trail of Crowley and Aziraphale. But if they weren’t helping with some sort of hell conspiracy, what on earth _were_ they doing here? And since when had they decided that they tolerated each other enough to be back in the same room, anyway.

He fingers twitched anxiously again and he busied himself with cutting his scone in half. Then, just to keep himself occupied he cut Cas’s and Sammy’s too. Maybe if it was obvious enough that they were ready to eat, they wouldn’t have to wait for the others.

Listening for the footsteps of the others turned out to be a complete waste of time as when Aziraphale and Crowley did finally turn up, it was with a whoosh of feathers and the most nauseating of fleeting glances that Dean had ever seen. What was it with Angels and the love looks? Was it just a thing they did to their friends? It would certainly answer a lot of questions he had about his own companion.

He had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t that.

“Gosh, are you all here for scones? How splendid.” Aziraphale declared, immediately pulling up a chair and commandeering the clotted cream. “Crowley and I were just wondering how you were getting on with your research.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “We were doing fine.” He snapped, “No thanks to either of you. Do you have any idea what is going on at all? Any clue that might help us? Because now would be a really good time to come out with it.”

Crowley laughed. He didn’t like it when Crowley laughed at him, particularly when he particularly sure that he hadn’t said anything remotely funny.

“Yes, but we’ll tell you later.” Now he was smirking. If there was one thing more annoying that Crowley laughing, it was Crowley smirking. “We wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”

And with that, he put both humans firmly off their dinner by fixing Aziraphale with the sort of saccharine look that would have put most diabetics into a coma.

Dean put down his plate and pushed his chair out in preparation to make his excuses. He really wasn’t in the mood to watch this. He was fairly certain that he wasn’t ever going to be in the mood to watch Crowley and Aziraphale sop all over each other. Watching demon eviscerations had a more calming effect on his stomach than that.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for them. Well, he wasn’t, actually. They were a real pair of idiots when it came to seeing what was in front of them. Aziraphale told people off for not cleaning behind their ears or for forgetting to say grace before a meal, for goodness sake, but he would drop everything at a moment’s notice to go and hang out with heaven’s second least favourite fallen Angel? If that wasn’t one hell of an inappropriate crush he didn’t know what was.

Well, good for them. If they’d finally figured it out they could at least stop throwing each other in the mud and pulling each other’s pigtails in the playground. No, actually, they would probably still manage to do that, just to annoy him that little bit more.

Dean was seriously unimpressed with any effort his day was making to improve. This was not improvement. He didn’t even like scones, for Chuck’s sake.

“Oh, don’t leave on our account.” Crowley trilled, shooting him a triumphant look over the Angel’s shoulder. “After all, we put up with you doing it all the time and haven’t lost our lunches yet.”

“Yeah, you know what? Screw this.”                  

Dean pulled his chair back with a horrible screeching noise, flung his jacket over his shoulder and stalked out of the room.

He wasn't sure what the plan was. Grab car keys, grab Sam, grab Cas and leave seemed like a pretty good bet right then. Whether the satanist lady was the root of their problems of not, her house and the rest of the guests in it were getting so heavily on his nerves that he was seriously considering stabbing the lot of them, just so he could have some peace and quiet for once.

He was already crunching over the gravel in the front garden when he realised his car keys weren't in his pocket. Even more annoyingly, it seemed that he was alone. Sam and Cas apparently having chosen a cream tea over indulging his strop. Manly strop. Very manly strop.

Well, fine. They could walk home. Just as soon as he swallowed his pride enough to go back inside and pick his car keys up. Right now, he didn't feel much like doing either of those things.

If he were an Angel, he could just fly home and go to bed, not that he would need to sleep any more. Or eat. He'd probably miss eating, but if Cas could make the odd exception, so could he.

Cas. Yes, now there was an idea. If the Angel could keep his mouth shut long enough to listen to him, made he could bring Sam and the car keys to Dean without him having to go back inside. It had to be worth a try, even if it probably wasn't a very good use of prayer.

Sod it, Cas had better have his phone on him.

He punched out the Angel's number and waited, hoping that Crowley wouldn't be too closely in earshot when he picked up. He didn't care, really, but if he could avoid another wind up from the King of Hell, it was worth the effort.

He jumped out of his skin when he heard a phone ring about a foot behind him. He spun around, not even bothering to conceal his frustration.

"Damn it, Cas, how many times have I-"

He tailed off, staring into two rather familiar and not altogether welcome eyes.

"Hello Dean. Sorry to disappoint you. Any chance you fancy going back inside, now?"

Dean felt a sensation he might describe at any other time as a ‘sinking feeling’. Right now, it was nothing less than a very angry feeling.

"Gabriel?"

"Yes?"

Great, it was like the world's worst high school reunion down here. Not that he'd ever been to one. Or as if heaven had a high school. Still, he knew what he meant, even if no one else did.

"What the hell are you even doing here? And don't tell me you were passing through for scones and jam, Crowley's already tried that one."

If Gabriel had been planning to act surprised that Crowley was inside the house, he seemed to forget at that moment. "Oh, I don't need an excuse to be here, Winchester. Cecelia's an old friend, I was concerned about her wellbeing. She's elderly, you know. Not as mobile as she once was."

"I don't believe that for a minute. You're up to something and they're in on it to. And no, I don't care what it is, so you can't entice me back inside with the prospect of finding out what the hell it is."

Gabriel shrugged before moving swiftly onto what seemed to be "Plan B". He whipped a very familiar looking bunch of keys out of his pocket and dangled them in front of Dean's nose.

"Can I entice you back inside with these?"

With that, he promptly vanished, leaving Dean's blood pressure steadily climbing in his wake.

Right. So Gabriel was in on it too, Of course Gabriel was in on it too. Everyone seemed to be giving it their all when it came to ruining his day. Hell, he was fully expecting Michael and co. to turn up and join the party at any moment. Well, screw them all, he was going home and going to bed.

Except now Gabriel had his car keys, which really threw a spanner in the works.

At least… it meant that he really _did_ have to go back inside, when he'd have quite happily stood in the front garden all night rather than put up with another round of whatever weirdness was winging his way now.

Prophecies, kidnappings, strange encounters in the supermarket and now this. This wasn't even remotely what he'd signed up for when he'd got out of bed to make pancakes this morning.

Pancakes. Oh, why had he thought about pancakes? His stomach was still complaining loudly at the total lack of scone he'd managed to ingest and the thought of his paltry breakfast just made things worse.

Maybe he would go back inside. But only to get his car keys. And avoid imminent death from starvation.

He stalked his was back to the front door and tried to slam it behind him. It didn't budge. He wasn't surprised. Like everything else in this house, it probably had some kind of vendetta against him.

"Fine. I'm back, Gabriel. Happy now?" he called to no one in particular. The dining room door was closed, which was odd as he didn't remember shutting it behind him. He tried the handle. The thing wouldn't budge. Great, what now?

"I think your attention is needed in the library." A cheery voice informed him.

"Just give me the keys Gabriel." he didn't even bother to raise his voice this time, wearily sticking out a hand in the vain hope that the archangel might take pity on him.

"Just one more thing, then I will." the Angel grinned. "But I needed you here to deal with a little problem Cecelia’s been having with her books."

"You want Sam for that." he made a fruitless snatch at the keys. They moved effortlessly out of his reach, which was a pretty neat trick for someone who barely came up to his shoulder to pull out.

“I want Sam for a great many things, but I can’t say that is one of them. Now go on. Slay the demon thing and I’ll let you go. Brownie promise.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re not a Brownie.”

Gabriel grinned knowingly. “No, Dean dearest. But I am a hell scout.”

The words took a moment to sink in, but when they did he lunged for the Angel’s neck with both hands.

“That was _you?_ ”

The Angel stepped back out of his reach.

“Yes.”

“And the prophecy shit?”

“ _And_ the prophecy shit.”

“Why? Why the hell would you do any of that, Gabriel? It’s not funny.”

The Angel sighed. “I can’t tell you why, yet. Sorry. But I really do need you to sort out the problem in the Library.”

Dean folded his arms. “Fine. But I need Sam and Cas to back me up.”

Gabriel waved a hand in the direction of the door and Dean heard the lock click itself open.

“They’re waiting. Probably enjoying second helpings by now, mind you.”

Dean didn’t bother listening to any more. He was at the door in a few seconds flat, banging it open to tell whoever was present that he’d had enough and that they were dispatching this thing in the library and then going straight home. To sleep. And eat. And definitely not be screwed around by any more celestial wavelengths who thought that they were funny.

Six faces looked up at him in surprise, as if they hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, Cas and Sam were halfway through standing up, as if to go after him. As if he’d just left, he realised with a jolt.

Bloody Gabriel. Messing around with time wasn’t exactly new when it came to dealing with the wayward archangel, but he still felt a surge of annoyance that it had been done to his friends. And him for that matter. When he’d said he’d been willing to stand in the front garden for as long as necessary, he hadn’t really anticipated it being an eternity.That was the sort of thing that led to serious problems down the line, if you weren’t careful about it.

“Sam. Cas. Can I have a word outside, please?” he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could. Losing his rag with Gabriel now would only draw out proceedings.

To their credit, neither of them argued. In fact, they looked rather stunned at his sudden reappearance, so much so that he'd have wagered that in their timeline he had only walked out of the door a fraction of a second earlier. Still, that wasn't important right now, he could explain easily enough what was going on in the car, on the way home, which was hopefully going to be very, very soon.

Plus, he suspected that an excuse to leave Crowley and Aziraphale to whatever they were planning to do to each other in the next ten minutes or so would be very, very welcome. Sam and Castiel were out of the door nearly as quickly as he was and it didn't take them long to agree to splatting whatever demon thingy was hiding out in the library and heading home.

"We should be back before it gets late, anyway." Sam shrugged. "it's only about ten to six."

He felt that there was something he should be remembering about the concept of six o clock, but whatever it was, it remained hidden in the recesses of his brain and staunchly refused to remove itself. Well, whatever was meant to be happening at six, he was sure he'd remember if it was important. With the way Dean was looking, it seemed a very imminent danger that his brother may explode with frustration around that time, so perhaps that was it.

Sam readied his preferred dagger in his hand and nodded for his brother to lead the way. He didn't bother to ask how Dean had somehow found out about this monster problem from walking out of the door for a millisecond, his brother didn't seem to be in the mood to explain himself either.

It didn't take long to climb up the stairs and find the library door. It was conveniently labelled "library", which seemed a bit odd as you would have assumed that most people knew where the rooms in their house were. Come to think of it, hadn't this one been on the ground floor earlier?

Sometimes it was just easier not to ask too many questions. Sam strongly suspected that now was one of those times.

"So, do you have any idea what's in there?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Gabriel said it was a demon thing that had moved in when Cecelia took delivery of some special book or other and now it won't let her read in peace. He also said something about it burning her Danielle Steel novels, but he didn't seem to find that one so much of a problem." He frowned at Sam's expression. "What? You a fan all of a sudden?"

"No." Sam replied curtly, "I was just wondering why you hadn't mentioned earlier that Gabriel had told you all of this. Or, you know, that Gabriel is alive. It would have been nice to know."

If Dean looked puzzled, it was nothing compared to the look of utter bewilderment that crossed Cas's face at Sam’s statement.

"Sam. Gabriel came by the bunker yesterday. Don't you remember?"

Sam stared at him. "What? No. No Cas, I don't remember. I think I would remember something like that. You could have told me."

"Sam... you spoke to him. Hugged him, if I remember correctly. I did too. It was last night, when you were making Nachos."

"I don't eat Nachos, Cas."

"I know you don't. You made them for Gabriel, remember?"

"NO! For the last time, Cas, I don't remember."

Dean broke the ensuing silence by slowly and deliberately hitting his head against the nearest wall.

"Sam. Gabriel told me earlier that the hell scout thing... the prophecy thing... he did it. He wouldn't say why. Are you sure you didn't say anything to him last night that would-"

"I TOLD you, I didn't speak to Gabriel last night. Shit, at far as I was concerned we didn't know if he was dead or alive until about a minute ago. Why the hell didn't I know that?"

If possible, this whole situation was starting to bug Dean even more than it had been a few minutes ago. Gabriel had been in Sam's room last night, and at some point, apparently, he had wiped the guy's memory and launched a campaign of utterly bewildering pranks against all three of them. But why?

What the hell. Kill the demon, get the car keys, go home, worry about all of this later. Or, better yet, not at all. In fact, never mention any of it again.

Yes. Never mentioning any of this ever again was definitely a good idea.

"We have other matters to attend to." Cas broke in. "There is something in this library that needs our attention. My brother can wait."

Dean's shoulders sagged a little in gratitude. Skewering a demon, he could do. It was something that could generally be achieved with brute force and ignorance, two things he'd always liked to believe that he possessed in spades.

Or clubs, or hearts. Whichever one meant he had a lot of it, because that was the one that he meant.

"Okay. You ready on three?"

Sam didn't look ready, but he shouldered arms obligingly and nodded.

"One... two..."

He'd probably get in trouble for kicking the door quite as hard as he just had done, but right then he didn't particularly care. He wanted to take out his frustrations on something and the door seemed the least likely candidate to smack him one straight back.

The three of them piled into the library, pointing their chosen weapons straight at the tall, Grecian woman standing in the centre of the room. Not, on balance, the scariest thing Dean had ever seen but certainly a good enough upgrade on scones.

She didn't lift her eyes from the text she was reading, but beckoned to them to come closer.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I trust you have come looking for me?"

Dean glanced at his companions. "Er. Yes. Are you the demon who's been messing with Cecilia's books? She asked us to come upstairs and have a quick word."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Your weapons are useless against me, human. My name is Calliope the muse. I feast upon fine literature, I drink upon the finest annals of poetry, all great works shall belong to me and all of you shall cower before my-“

Sam’s throw caught her square between the eyes with a copy of ’50 Shades of Grey’. The muse screamed in agony.

The hunter shrugged. “Don’t think we don’t know how to fight dirty. Now get out and leave this library alone.”

The muse huffed and brushed herself off. “If you think I’m impressed by a nasty little trick like – OH PLEASE NO!”

Sam feinted a throw, a collector’s bound edition of ‘Twilight’ in hand. “This library is full of these little beauties, Calliope. I think there’s even a bookcase dedicated to the works of Danielle Steel, so if I were you, I’d…”

“FINE!” she snapped. “I’m going. Sheesh, why summon a muse if you’re going to read that rubbish.”

And with that, she disappeared. Sam shrugged. “Well, that was anticlimactic.”

Dean stared at him, “How did you know how to defeat her?”

“She said she drew her power from great literature. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what her weakness is.”

Dean stepped away from the conversation quickly. If his brother had been reading novels like that in his spare time, it would certainly explain a lot.

“Well. Job done then. And look, it’s still only six o clock.”

The strange sensation of something melting away filled Sam’s mind and he automatically clutched at the doorway to steady himself. The feeling was becoming familiar, he realised, it was the feeling of shielded memories making themselves known.

Gabriel. Cas was right, Gabriel had come to see him yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would of course be wrong for me to post this without a mention to the wonderful man whose works inspired me to write it. Sir Terry, farewell. Give Binky a carrot from us.


	15. Thursday 6:15pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Into the home strait! Thank you so much to everyone who is still reading my waffle - enjoy chapter 15 <3

 “Sammy? Sammy, you okay?”

He nodded, tightening his grip on the doorframe. Oh crap. This was his fault. Oh hell’s buckets, this was all his fault.

_“Hello little brother”_

When was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut? Just…completely shut. Never saying another word, ever again. It would almost definitely be safer.

_“The lovebirds have gone to bed, Sammy. Come on, talk to me.”_

Rule one of dealing with Gabriel – you didn’t give him ideas, ever.

_“No. You I can’t. It’s crazy, Gabe, as far as I knew you were gone until today. How long until you disappear again? It would be a hundred times worse this time, you know it would.”_

You definitely don’t give him ideas _and_ an incentive.

_“I just can’t, Gabe, even my brother has more sense than that.”_

And you never, ever offered him the opportunity to prove you wrong.

_“What if your brother didn’t have more sense than that?”_

_“What?”_

_“What if he realised for himself that love is worth it? Would you reconsider then?”_

You generally tried not to agree to anything he proposed…

_“It’s not an open ended deal you know.” He’d added, not wanting to give in too easily. “Convince him in 24 hours, or the deal’s off.”_

_Gabriel frowned. “And you won’t sabotage the deal, I trust?”_

_He’d promised he wouldn’t. Gabriel had told him he would make sure._

And you never, ever shook hands on it.

Gabriel had stuck to their agreement – Sam couldn’t interfere with would he didn’t know about.

“Sammy?”

It didn’t exactly matter now. 24 hours were up. Unless he had missed something very, very crucial around him in that time, the deal was off. The disappointment was surprisingly crushing.

“I’m fine, let’s go home.”

He knew Dean and Cas were looking at each other, trying to figure out if they should take him at his word or force him to reconsider. He decided to take matters into his own hands and set out in the direction of the stairs.

“Sam? Sam, we still need the car keys.”

He ignored his brother and focussed on getting to the door. He didn’t want to think about Gabriel right about then. Why the hell had he been so bloody stubborn? What was so wrong with saying yes? Surely it didn’t matter if it seemed a terrible idea, he wouldn’t know either way unless he was willing to give it a try.

A real try. A chance. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

“Gabriel? Get your feathery butt over here.” Dean growled. Sam didn’t wait to hear if there was any response. He’d had about enough of today. Now he knew that this – _all_ of this was Gabriel’s doing, trying and failing to prove a point to Dean and Cas, there was no more mystery. No more hunting, no more research and _definitely_ no more reason not to just go home and go straight to bed.

No reason except, of course, Gabriel holding the Impala hostage for some bizarre reason.

“Gabriel? Damn it, Gabriel?” behind him, Dean’s tone drifted from curt to vaguely murderous. If Sam had been in a better mood he might have attempted to calm his brother down but that sort of thing never seemed to work when there was a very real danger that he might murder someone himself.

He’d just wait by the car. All the better to avoid any awkward discussions.

“Cas?”

He heard Dean stop and turn. The murmur of hushed conversation at the top of the stairs reached his ears. He didn’t bother to tune in his eavesdropping skills, whatever they were talking about wasn’t likely to be anything he wanted to hear right now. Unless it was ‘let’s stop at that new salad bar on the way home’ and he doubted that very much indeed.

Outside. Car. Home Bed. Yes, that was a good plan. It was an excellent plan in fact. All he needed to do was put it into action and he was fairly certain that _that_ wouldn’t be as challenging as averting an apocalypse.

It started out so well. He had nearly made it twenty seconds and most of the way to the bottom of the stairs before everything kicked off all over again.

“CAS!”

Sam’s head snapped back so fast he counted himself lucky to escape whiplash. When his eyes finally caught up he covered them with a groan; Gabriel was stood at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched.

Eight steps or so below, his brother stumbled, struggling to right himself under the sudden impact of Cas’s dead weight.

“Now _kiss._ ” Gabriel cried out in exasperation. “Oh come on. You want to, I _know_ you want to.”

Even with his limited view of proceedings, Sam could picture the look of absolute daggers that Dean was sending the Archangel’s way. The rage was radiating from him so strongly that even from his position, Sam felt the need to take a step back. Oh crap. Someone was going to lose limbs over this.

Carefully, Castiel righted himself, freeing his hands from their tight clutch around Dean’s shoulders. He rubbed gingerly at his neck, wincing at the unfamiliar jarring sensation that he was going to file firmly under ‘downsides of falling’. Slowly, they both moved apart, looking up at the archangel and, if Sam was not mistaken,  actually making him recoil under the strength of their combined gaze.

Gabriel shuffled awkwardly, raising both hands in a defensive gesture. “Sorry! Sorry, just…er… my hand slipped, you know. They do that sometimes, I’ll just, uh…”

He produced the car keys from his pocket and threw them in Dean’s direction in a vain attempt at reparation before backing away in a conciliatory gesture. “Here’s your keys. Thanks for helping out.”

“Gabriel. We need to have a word.”

Cas sounded winded, as if his fall down the stairs had shaken him out of his usual calm demeanour. Sam saw Dean’s hand reach out to steady him before withdrawing hastily, retreating to his pocket as he shuffled his feet away from the Angel.

“About me pushing you down the stairs?”

Cas sighed so heavily he winced, hands clutching at his newly bruised ribs. “About all of this, you can’t keep doing things like this, Gabriel. What are you even doing?”

Gabriel shifted from foot to foot, avoiding his brother’s eyes.

“Nothing. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Then he looked up and stared straight into Sam’s eyes. His heart dropped. Heat flared in his cheeks. Suddenly all he wanted to do was shout and shout and shout some more at his idiot of an archangel. If what he remembered was true then… oh, hell on earth…

“Gabriel, did you fake an apocalypse, summon a monster, hire a Lucifer imposter, form a squadron of Hell scouts and stage a kidnapping _just_ to get me to go on a date with you?”

Sheepishly, and to Cas and Dean’s obvious dismay, Gabriel nodded.

“Hell on fire, Gabe. Did you ever consider just _asking_ me?”

Gabriel was starting to smile at him. If he kept that up, Sam wasn’t going to be able to finish his sentence before he marched up there and grabbed him. Hell, he wasn’t going to be able to finish his sentence anyway. It hadn’t worked, had it? Maybe if it had, things would be different, but maybe Dean was right. Trying to have an Angel boyfriend was only ever going to end in disaster.

He knew how his brother felt about the Angel, he’d seen half of it first hand and missed Chuck only knows how much more of it. If Dean knew better than to try and have something he wanted so badly, maybe he was right. Maybe Sam should listen.

Maybe he could if Gabriel would just stop staring at him like that.

His legs were moving before he could stop them, taking the stairs two at a time until he was stood between Gabriel and his brother.

“Dean. I told Gabriel that if you and Cas could figure things out, then he and I could figure things out too.”

There was a deadly silence whilst his brother stared at him with an expression of such incredulity that Sam suddenly wondered if he really had got it all wrong. When Dean turned without a word and left, he really started to regret ever opening his mouth.

When he turned back to Gabriel, he realised that Cas had flown too.

“Well, this is a little bit awkward, isn’t it?” Gabriel shuffled his feet and lifted his gaze to stare back at Sam. “I guess I lost the bet.”

Sam focussed his gaze on his own shoes. “Yeah. I guess you did. But Gabe, you know it was just a stupid bet. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You mean you wouldn’t-“

“I would” he interrupted quickly, “You know I would. It’s just, you know, just because you lost your bet, doesn’t mean we can’t… you know.”

There was silence. Then Gabriel grinned.

“I don’t think I _do_ know, actually. Why don’t you help me fill in the blanks?”

Sam felt the heat rise his face. “Come on Angel. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

With a trademark smirk, Gabriel extended his hand. “Come on Moose, let’s go.”

With a swish of feathers, the landing disappeared.

* * *

Approximately eighty feet and a lot of cream scones away, Aziraphale paused with a teaspoon of jam halfway to his lips and listened intently. Not that his angelic hearing was evening remotely necessary when one Dean Winchester was shouting at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t like to waste these things.

Crowley took advantage of his companion’s attentions straying elsewhere to help himself to some more tea.

“You know,” he pondered, taking a long slurp “I think they’re both mad.”

Aziraphale haphazardly buttered the remaining half of him own scone and made a half noise of agreement. It was best to keep abreast of whatever was going on in the hall, he decided. After all, if the Winchesters actually did decide to kill Gabriel for his latest round of exploits, he and Crowley ought to try and stop them.

Undeterred by the lack of meaningful response, Crowley pressed on:

“I mean, I wouldn’t date an angel either.”

Aziraphale frowned, scrunching the edge of hid napkin between his fingers. “No?”

“No way. Can you imagine being stuck with Gabriel or Clarence all the time? You’d go mad. Plus you’d never have any fun. They’d always be telling you off or being annoying and goody-goody whenever you suggested anything remotely fun.”

 “Mmhmm.” The napkin in Aziraphale’s grasp was compressing into a tight ball as the King of Hell spoke. He tried to convince himself it was out of anxiety over Gabriel’s safety. Even his own subconscious remained sorely unconvinced.

“I mean, you have me to make you interesting. If it weren’t for that, I’m not sure I’d bother.”

The napkin spontaneously combusted. Crowley blinked. “You alright there, Az?”

“Just because I am not _bad,_ doesn’t mean I’m boring, Crowley.” The Angel hissed, stabbing his scone with abandon. “You can be virtuous _and_ fun.”

Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale scowled.

“I’m not like you, Crowley. I’m not…” he paused. “…evil.”

Crowley laughed out loud, a cruel, long laugh, more stung than he cared to admit.

"Oh, at least Lucifer and I _admit_ we're evil. You act like you're so divine and pure when really you’re just a massive, hypocritical _jerk,_ You don’t need to fall anywhere, Az, you’re bad enough already _._ ” Crowley folded his arms and glowered, congratulating himself on an excellent putdown. Now Az would surely just admit that he’d been right all along and apologise.

Aziraphale stared. Then he blinked. Then he stared a little more. The little voice in Crowley’s head that had been telling him to give the angel what for had gone suspiciously quiet all of a sudden. In fact, its little friend ‘guilt’ had taken up residence in its place.

The new little voice told Crowley quite plainly that he was being a bigger jerk now that his Angel ever could be. Crowley was not and had never been in a position to call anyone else a jerk. He was a terrible Angel to boot, so terribly that he’d fallen all the way down with the real Lucifer, until none of the other Angels would even speak to him.

Except Az.

Az, who was currently blinking his way through his utter shock and bewilderment at his friend’s behaviour. The voice haughtily informed Crowley that there was only one person present who deserved the title of Universe’s biggest jerk, and it wasn’t Aziraphale.

“I see.”

_No, no you don’t see, Az, you don’t see anything._

“I won’t bother you any further.”

Had he thought for even a second about what he was doing, he might have reconsidered. There were other ways to stop an Angel disappearing on you, after all. Spells, traps, amulets, the works. Plenty of ways that didn’t involve ending up with two clutching handfuls of feathers and a face about an inch from his own.

Aziraphale’s gasp caught him by surprise. “Crowley!”

He should let go. He _knew_ he should let go straight away and then just accept that Aziraphale wouldn’t want to talk to help again. He was touching his _wings_ for Hell’s sake.

He was touching his wings, and the Angel hadn’t smited him yet. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, he knew that was a good sign.

“Um, Crowley”

This was not good. He'd meant to apologise or something, he was sure that that was more or less what he'd been thinking when he reached out. But now there was nearly six feet of Angel pressed against him and he had hand full of things that he was NOT meant to touch, ever and his brain would not even entertain the possibility of letting go before Aziraphale swore to him that he wasn't going anywhere.

"CROWLEY!"

He was raising his voice now, but he still wasn't struggling, which was either a sign of fear or something else. Oh boy did Crowley hope for 'something else'.

Apparently he hoped it a little too hard. He hadn't even noticed the little stroking motions he was making until Aziraphale shivered violently and pulled away, drawing his wings in tight. "What in the name of heaven and hell was that about, Crowley?"

"I'm sorry."

He stopped right there in surprise. He'd meant it, he realised. He'd actually, truly meant it. But demons weren't supposed to feel sorry - demons weren't supposed to regret things. That was what humans did and what demons made humans do to themselves.

He dropped both hands to his sides and lowered his gaze to the floor. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to"

Aziraphale huffed. "You didn't mean to? How on earth did you manage to do something like that accidentally, Crowley? It is _not_ okay to do that."

Crowley bit his lip.

"I know. I just didn't want you to go. I panicked."

The Angel faltered and stopped. Crowley really did seem sorry and that was enough to make him push back any thoughts of a haughty smite to teach him a lesson. Crowley _knew_ touching an Angel's wings uninvited was a big no-no and much as he was sure that dear Castiel had let that dreadfully ill mannered hunter paw HIM all over, Aziraphale had standards.

Letting Crowley practically grope him before he'd even had the nerve to kiss him was one of them. And he didn't seem remotely close to putting that little issue right any time soon. Well, if he needed a nudge, he could have a nudge.

"Why didn't you want me to leave, Crowley?" he stepped a little closer, coming toe to toe with his friend. "Was it because you wanted to rip my wings off first, hmm? Because that's want it felt like."

It hadn't, not even close, but Crowley's stricken expression was worth the lie. He had never wanted to hurt him, Aziraphale realised with a glow of satisfaction.

"Are you getting lonely in hell? Did you want another fallen angel to join you? Because that isn't going to be me. I've fallen just as far as I wanted to and now I'm stopped right here."

"I don't want you to fall."

Aziraphale forcibly repressed the grin that was threatening to break through his mask of cold indifference.

"Oh? don't you? I thought that was exactly what you wanted."

"It isn't!" Crowley was protesting loudly now, bordering on hysterics. "I like you just the way you are - exactly the way you are."

Aziraphale's grin broke through and he didn't even attempt such a futile measure as trying to stop the laugh that erupted from him.

"Oh Crowley, I know you do, stupid."

Crowley let the insult slide, which was so very unlike him he briefly wondered if he were ill.

"You do? How? How could you possibly know that?"

The Angel's hands reached out and rested hesitantly on the demon's shoulders.

"Because you just told me.” He managed the merest flicker of a smile. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

The demon leaned in and kissed his angel the way he’d been wanting to since the damned humans invented the thing. He didn’t take orders from Angels.

* * *

If he’d been 100% done before all this crap kicked off (and, in all honesty, Dean Winchester had started the entire day at about 312.2% done with everything, ever.) he was about one million per cent ‘done’ right then. He also didn’t give toss whether it was mathematically possible to be more than 100% anything – right then, he _was_.

Done with Gabriel.

Done with tricks.

Done with Angels.

And definitely, _definitely_ done with Thursdays. If he never sure another Thursday again in his life, it would be… well, it would be _Wednesday_ but more to the point – it would be too soon.

What was more, he was done with everyone sticking their nose into his business. What kind of crazy person went around pushing angels down staircases anyway? Someone who should be avoided – that’s who.

The car keys worked on the first try, much to his relief. He’d been more than half expecting some sort of final trick or test to befall him before he actually got anywhere. If Gabriel had taken his eye off the ball for a moment, he intended to make the most of the oversight before the archangel woke up.

A simple and effective enough plan for any hunter, he thought to himself. He had his car keys, he had an escape route and very soon he would have a decent sleep and an end to Thursday.

The thought filled him with so much reckless optimism as he engaged the engine that he nearly mowed straight into the strange figure gliding up the driveway. Cursing, he raised a hand in apology before righting the angle of the car for a second attempt at the exit.

“Sorry, didn’t see you. You okay?”

FINE. THANK YOU. The figure dusted off the packet he was carrying and waved a sleeve-covered hand. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A PARTY RING?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay to this one - try as I might, Crowley Muse and Aziraphale Muse just WOULD NOT make out with each other. They relented eventually xx


	16. Thursday 8pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The official and proper end. Probably.

It had to be a Thursday. He never could get the hang of Thursdays.

He also couldn’t get the hang of Angel pranks, insane teenage girls, evil muses, false prophecies and cream teas but that was beside the point. It was Thursdays that _really_ got his goat. Hell, Thursdays got his whole farmyard.

Thankfully the universe seemed to have finally picked up the memo that Dean Winchester was in a seriously bad mood and had conceded him the luxury of an uneventful trip back to the bunker. It was just as well – he was in the mood to kill the next bystander who got in his way and was sure that the world wasn’t short of volunteers.

By the time he had settled his bags back in his room and reached the conclusion that a frothy coffee thingy would make all kinds of sense right now, his annoyance had settled into the sort of dull, throbbing headache that could keep itself up for days. Wonderful.

It said everything about his day so far that he was genuinely relieved to complete the short walk to the kitchen without anyone attempting to seduce or murder him. It made a nice change. If there was milk in the fridge and some espresso pods left in his secret hiding place behind the microwave, he could almost have said the day was looking up.

He managed to fill the kettle and set it to boil without incident and was just working up the courage to push his luck on the milk front when something rather strange caught his eye. Right next to the mutilated pile of wood shavings that had once been a workable kitchen utensil there lay a chopping board he had never seen before.

Beside the brand new and rather fetching chopping board lay a note, written out with the utmost care and tucked under one corner. Dean froze. After all of the events of the day, there couldn’t be anything else, could there? With a shaking hand he eased the paper out from underneath the wooden board and flattened it into his palm. Please no more hell scouts. Hell, please no more _anything._

It wasn’t just anything.

The throbbing in his temple suddenly accelerated about twenty beats per minute.

_Dear Dean,_

_I found this board and believe it will provide an adequate replacement to its predecessor. Unfortunately there is another prophecy on the back._

_Kind regards,_

_Cas_

Despite himself, Dean couldn’t help a smile. He wondered if Sam’s little theory had finally proven true and that the day had finally gotten so bad that it had mutated into some strange kind of good. Well, there was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, he carefully turned the chopping board over to reveal the carefully inscribed message on the back:

AND THE HUNTER

SHALL KISS THE ANGEL

IN THE LIBRARY

Equal parts amusement and panic flooded into his body until he found himself wondering if he’d left the heating on by mistake. A kiss. Cas… Cas wanted to kiss him? What was more, Cas was too nervous to ask him outright if the ‘prophecy’ was anything to go by. Well, two could play at that game.

 

* * *

Sam Winchester had never known that clothes could fly so far until he had to try and retrieve his moose t shirt from the balcony railings at the Ritz hotel. He couldn’t fault Gabriel’s enthusiasm, in fact, the sheer scale of it left him slightly flustered, but couldn’t the guy rip his clothes off in _some_ semblance of order? If not for him then for the sensibilities of the residents of Piccadilly circus. Nobody needed to see him scurry about clad only in a sheet. Nobody human, anyway.

Gabriel was completely unrepentant, naturally. He wouldn’t even shift from his cosy spot in the middle of the bed to assist Sam in his early morning scavenger hunt. There was quite simply no reason why the younger Winchester _needed_ clothes, in his opinion, and therefore absolutely no point in helping him acquire some. Besides, surely it would be time to take them all off again soon enough.

“No.”

Gabriel huffed into his pillow at Sam’s retort. “I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it. I told you, I’m not doing anything else until you buy me breakfast.”

The archangel sighed and wriggled further into the warm patch his companion had left behind. “I wasn’t thinking about _you_ having to do anything, Sammy.”

The hunter blushed and threw a shirt at him. “Get up.”

“Really? It’s like, 8pm in Kansas.” Gabriel gave another sigh, “It’s not breakfast time for ages.”

Sam grinned. “Well, you should have thought about that before you zapped us here, shouldn’t you? _And_ before you mojoed time around.”

“Sunrises are romantic.”

“Not for seven hours in a row they’re not. Now get up.”

Finally admitting defeat Gabriel snapped his fingers and dressed, smirking at Sam’s incredulous expression. He would his arms around the taller man’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

“Breakfast, then?”

“Breakfast”

* * *

It didn’t prove difficult to track the angel down. Cas had retreated to the library and had already curled up in his favourite chair with a copy of Mrs Beeton by the time Dean appeared. If the hunter didn’t know better, he’d say that Cas was remarkably nonchalant, given the contents of the note he had left in the kitchen. Fortunately, Dean did know better. Cas was petrified out of his wits.

Some part of him chastised the notion of teasing him. The basis was sound enough but the temptation was far, far too great. He’d waited far too long not to make the most of this.

From his position in the doorway, Dean cleared his throat.

“Hey buddy.”

Cas froze mid page turn.

“Hello Dean.”

Smirking, Dean meandered further into the room, relishing the way the angel averted his gaze. Carefully, he knelt down in front of the armchair and rested a hand or either arm. He watched as Cas bit his lip, shuffling nervously in his seat. He watched the colour rise in the angel’s cheeks and found himself wondering if his were doing the same. Playing it cool was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“We got a problem, Cas.”

Cas kept his eyes firmly on the page. The same page he’d been reading for about ten minutes.

“What kind of problem?”

Dean reached out and gripped the edges of “Mrs Beetons best pies” and, with a flourish, wrenched it from the angel’s grasp and tossed it over his shoulder. He didn’t miss the way that Cas’s mouth fell comically open in surprise. “A very, very big problem.”

Cas swallowed.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to deal with it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

His hands found the lapels of Cas’s trench coat as cool fingers threaded their way into the fabric of his shirt, clinging tight. The Angel paled, panic obvious in his face as Dean leaned in.

“Stop!”

Dean stopped, frowning. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Dean… I… there is something you should know.” Cas’s fingers flexed awkwardly, as if trying to force themselves to let go.

Dean did his best to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Oh? And what’s that, Cas?”

“I…there wasn’t really another prophecy. I lied. What is more I can’t bring myself to be sorry for it.”

Repressing the urge to smile uncontrollably was starting to make his jaw hurt. With one last effort he set his expression into a look of curious concern and moved to rest his fingers on top of the angel’s.

“Why, Cas? Why did you lie?”

The blush that rose on the angel’s cheeks was visible even as he ducked his head away from the hunter and sighed.

“Because… because when Angels want something really badly, they lie.”

“Just like people.”

He watched as the Angel worried at his newly bitten lip. His eyes darted left and right as if scouting the exits, ready for a speedy escape if his next move proved a terrible mistake. He watched as Cas’s finger knotted and unknotted themselves in the soft fabric of his overshirt, toying with button holes as if they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.

“Cas?”

Blue eyes peered up at him through a fan of dark lashes, searching his face for… something. Something important. “Cas… I…”

Later, he’d try to remember what it was in that moment that he’d planned to say before those words were permanently, wonderfully pushed from his mind forever when soft lips finally met his own.

* * *

“You know, my dear Crow, this suite is really rather marvellous.”

The King of Hell looked up and smiled. Of _course_ it was marvellous. It was a 72 inch widescreen _and_ Netflix. Plus it had him, which was an added bonus for the angel. Just as well the honeymoon suite had been nicked by a very, very loud couple whom he was going to find and smite very soon – any nicer and he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to leave. Between that little irritation and the time and space anomalies that had kept him awake in the early hours, the whole thing was just imperfect enough to keep him happy.

After all, he had certain standard to uphold. He didn’t _do_ romantic perfection.

“In fact, if I wasn’t looking forward to breakfast so very much I might insist we stay.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the angel’s nearly-innuendo. “Bloody hell, Az.”

Aziraphale smirked in a manner that had Crowley considering all sorts of naughty thoughts, none of which involved apricot jam. Well. Maybe a few of them.

“But, as it stands, I am absolutely ravenous. What do you say we celebrate our new…er… _understanding_ over a cup of tea?”

Crowley wasted no time in throwing his arm around the angel’s shoulders and steering him out of the door before his treacherous brain could suggest any alternative uses for a fine china tea set. It was still early and the warding he’d set up on their favourite table ensured that the view of Green Park would be the perfect accompaniment to their meal.

At least it would have been, were an archangel and a Moose not already sat there.

Well bugger.

“Come on Az.” He muttered, seizing the Angel’s hand. “We’re off to Fortnums. This place is going right down hill.”

Aziraphale simply smiled. “Oh Crowley. You are such a terrible snob, but I still like you.”

* * *

On reflection, Dean had decided that Thursdays weren’t bad after all. In fact, this particular Thursday was very, very good indeed.

Manoeuvring an arm out from under his sleeping angel, he carefully lifted his favourite cappuccino mug to his lips and sighed content in the knowledge that there was no one there to see him happily surrender his man card. As if in agreement Cas snuggled further into his chest, purring softly.

No apocalypse, no unsolved kidnappings and _definitely_ no more prophecies.

Definitely no more prophecies.

Well, apart from the one he’d found pinned to the fridge on his way back from brewing the coffee. He’d have a word with Cas about that later.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Angel stirred and pressed a sleepy kiss to Dean’s neck. “What?”

Dean smiled.

“I was just thinking about the prophecy you left on the fridge.”

Cas gave a sleepy grumble. “I didn’t leave anything on the fridge.”

“The one Gabriel left, then. Someone did.”

The Angel shrugged. “No one’s been here except us. Maybe it’s a real one this time.”

Dean snorted, wriggling back down into a comfortable position. “Maybe.”

It was a nice thought, he decided, that this one just might be true.

 

“AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is. My 2014 Nanowrimo and first SPN fanfic ever. *wipes tears* Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented, your encouragement means the world. Love yous xxx


End file.
